UC-NRLF 


B    M    IDl    MMl 


GILBERT  K.  CHESTERTON 


r 


■  sifciiir 


{    LIBRARY 

1     ONivewsmr  Of 

V     CAtlfOINIA 


ALL   THINGS    CONSIDERED 


ALL     THINGS 
CONSIDERED 

BY 
G.    K.    CHESTERTON 


NEW   YORK 

JOHN    LANE    COMPANY 

MCMXIII 


/•"-^ 


^'\' 


^.{^ 


Add   to  Lib. 


GIFT 


P/?^'/53 


1. 

1 

CONTENTS 

'5 
rJ 

PAGE 

THE    CASE    FOR    THE   EPHEMERAL 

I 

COCKNEYS    AND    THEIR   JOKES 

9 

THE    FALLACY   OF   SUCCESS 

21 

ON    RUNNING   AFTER   ONE's    HAT 

3' 

THE   VOTE   AND   THE    HOUSE     . 

37 

CONCEIT    AND    CARICATURE       . 

47 

PATRIOTISM    AND    SPORT 

57 

AN    ESSAY   ON    TWO   CITIES         . 

65 

FRENCH    AND    ENGLISH    . 

73 

THE   ZOLA   CONTROVERSY 

81 

OXFORD    FROM    WITHOUT 

89 

WOMAN               .... 

99 

THE    MODERN    MARTVR     . 

107 

ON    POLITICAL   SECRECY  . 

"5 

EDWARD    VII.    AND    SCOTLAND 

125 

THOUGHTS    AROUND    KHEPENICK 

135 

THE    BOY          .... 

145 

681 


All  Thines   Considered 


LIMERICKS    AND   COUNSKI.S   OF   PERFECTION 

ANONYMITY    AND   FURTHER   COUNSELS 

ON   THE   CRYPTIC    AND   THE   EI.I.II'TIC 

THE   WORSHIP   OF   THE    WEALTHY 

SCIENCE    AND    RELIGION 

THE   METIIUSELAHITE      . 

SPIRITUALISM 

THE    ERROR    OF    IM  PARTIAI  H  Y 

PHONETIC   SPELLING 

HUMANITARIANISM    AND   STRENGTH 

WINE   WHEN    IT    IS    RED 

DEMAGOGUES    AND    MYSTAGOGL'ES 

THE    "EATANSWILL   GAZETTE" 

FAIRY   TALES 

TOM   JONES    AND   MORALITY 

THE   MAID   OF   ORLEANS 

A   DEAD   POEP 

CHRISTMAS      , 


•55 

169 

'79 

1S7 

195 
201 
209 
215 

231 

237 
245 
253 
259 
267 
275 
2S3 


ALL    THINGS    CONSIDERED 


The  Case  for  the  Ephemeral         ©        G 

T  CANNOT  understand  the  people  who  take 
hterature  seriously  ;  but  I  can  love  them,  and 
I  do.  Out  of  my  love  I  warn  them  to  keep  clear 
of  this  book.  It  is  a  collection  of  crude  and  shape- 
less papers  upon  current  or  rather  flying  subjects ; 
and  they  must  be  published  pretty  much  as  they 
stand.  They  were  written,  as  a  rule,  at  the  last 
moment ;  they  were  handed  in  the  moment  before 
it  was  too  late,  and  I  do  not  think  that  our 
commonwealth  would  have  been  shaken  to  its 
foundations  if  they  had  been  handed  in  the  mom.ent 
after^^  They  must  go  out  now,  with  all  their  im- 
perfections on  their  head,  or  rather  on  mine;  for 
their  vices  are  too  vital  to  be  improved  with  a  blue 
pencil,  or  with  anything  I  can  think  of,  except 
dynamite. 

Their   chief  vice  is  that  so  many  of  them  are 
very  serious ;  because  I  had  no  time  to  make  them 


r^ 


All  Things  Considered 

flijipant.  It  is  so  easy  to  be  solemn  ;  it  is  so  hard 
to  be  frivolous.  Let  any  honest  reader  shut  his 
eyes  for  a  few  moments,  and  approaching  the 
secret  tribunal  of  his  soul,  ask  himself  whether  he 
would  really  rather  be  asked  in  the  next  two  hours 
to  write  the  front  page  of  the  Times,  which  is  full 
of  long  leading  articles,  or  the  front  page  of  7//- 
Bits,  which  is  full  of  short  jokes.  If  the  reader  is 
the  fine  conscientious  fellow  I  take  him  for,  he  will 
at  once  reply  that  he  would  rather  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment  write  ten  Times  articles  than  one  7//- 
Bits  joke.  Responsibility,  a  heavy  and  cautious 
responsibility  of  speech,  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the 
world ;  anybody  can  do  it.  That  is  why  so  many 
tired,  elderly,  and  wealthy  men  go  in  for  politics. 
They  are  responsible,  because  they  have  not  the 
sticngth  of  mind  left  to  be  irresponsible.  It  is 
more  dignified  to  sit  still  than  to  dance  the  Barn 
Dance.  It  is  also  easier.  So  in  these  easy  pages 
I  keep  myself  on  the  whole  on  the  level  of  the 
Times :  it  is  only  occasionally  that  I  leap  upwards 
almost  to  the  level  of  Tit-Bits. 

I  resume  the  defence  of  this  indefensible  book. 

These  articles  have  another  disadvantage  arising 

,^l '    from  the  scurry  in  which  they  were  written  ;  they 

^  .^  are   too  long-winded  and  elaborate.     One  of  the 

great  disadvantages  of  hurry  is  that  it  takes  such  a 

long  time.     If  I  have  to  start  for  Higligate  this 


The  Case  for  the  Ephemeral 

day  week,  I  may  perhaps  go  the  shortest  way.  If 
I  have  to  start  this  minute,  I  shall  almost  certainly 
go  the  longest.  In  these  essays  (as  I  read  them 
over)  I  feel  frightfully  annoyed  with  myself  for  not 
getting  to  the  point  more  quickly ;  but  I  had  not 
enough  leisure  to  be  quick.  There  are  several  •- 
maddening  cases  in  which  I  took  two  or  three  pages 
in  attempting  to  describe  an  attitude  of  which  the 
essence  could  be  expressed  in  an  epigram  ;  only 
there  was  no  time  for  epigrams.  I  do  not  repent 
of  one  shade  of  opinion  here  expressed;  but  I  feel 
that  they  might  have  been  expressed  so  much 
more  briefly  and  precisely.  For  instance,  these 
pages  contain  a  sort  of  recurring  protest  against 
the  boast  of  certain  writers  that  they  are  merely 
recent.  They  brag  that  their  philosophy  of  the 
universe  is  the  last  philosophy  or  the  new  philo- 
sophy, or  the  advanced  and  progressive  philosophy. 
I  have  said  much  against  a  mere  modernism. 
When  I  use  the  word  "modernism,"  I  am  not 
alluding  specially  to  the  current  quarrel  in  tlie 
Roman  Catholic  Church,  though  I  am  certainl^T- 
astonished  at  any  intellectual  group  accepting  so  i 
weak  and  unphilosophical  a  name.  It  is  incom-  l^ 
prehensible  to  me  that  any  thinker  can  calmly  call 
himself  a  modernist;  he  might  as  well  call  himself 
a  Thursdayite.  But  apart  altogether  from  that 
particular  disturbance,  I  am.  conscious  of  a  general 
3 


All  Things  Considered 

irritation  expressed  against  the  people  who  boast  of 
their  advancement  and  modernity  in  the  discussion 
ofrchgion.  But  I  never  succeeded  in  saying  the 
quite  clear  and  obvious  thing  that  is  really  the 
matter  with  mo;lernism.  'IMie  real  objection  to 
modernism  is  simply  that  it  is  a  form  of  snob- 
bishness. It  is  an  attempt  to  crush  a  rational 
oi)ponent  not  by  reason,  but  by  some  mystery  of 
superiority,  by  hinting  that  one  is  specially  up  to 
date  or  particularly  "  in  the  know."  To  flaunt 
the  fact  that  we  have  had  all  the  last  books  from 
Germany  is  simply  vulgar;  like  flaunting  the  fact 
that  we  have  had  all  the  last  bonnets  from  Paris. 
To  introduce  into  philosophical  discussions  a 
sneer  at  a  creed's  antiquity  is  like  introducing  a 
sneer  at  a  lady's  age.  It  is  caddish  because  it 
is  irrelevant.  The  pure  modernist  is  merely  a 
snob  ;  he  cannot  bear  to  be  a  month  behind  the 
fashion. 

Similarly  I  find  that  I  have  tried  in  these  pages 
to  express  the  real  objection  to  philanthropists  and 
have  not  succeeded.  I  have  not  seen  the  quite 
simple  objection  to  the  causes  advocated  by  cer- 
tain wealthy  idealists  ;  causes  of  which  the  cause 
called  teetotalism  is  the  strongest  case.  I  have 
used  many  abusive  terms  about  the  thing,  calling 
it  Puritanism,  or  superciliousness,  or  aristocracy  ; 
but  I  have  not  seen  and  stated  the  quite  simple 
4 


The  Case  for  the  Ephemeral 

objection  to  philanthropy ;  which  is  that  it  is 
rehgious  persecution.  Religious  persecution  does 
not  consist  in  thumbscrews  or  fires  of  Smithfield  ; 
the  essence  of  religious  persecution  is  this  :  that 
the  man  who  happens  to  have  material  power 
in  the  State,  either  by  wealth  or  by  official 
position,  should  govern  his  fellow-citizens  not 
according  to  their  religion  or  philosophy,  but 
according  to  his  own.  If,  for  instance,  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  a  vegetarian  nation ;  if  there  is 
a  great  united  mass  of  men  who  wish  to  live  by 
the  vegetarian  morality,  then  I  say  in  the  emphatic 
words  of  the  arrogant  French  marquis  before  the 
French  Revolution,  "  Let  them  eat  grass."  Perhaps 
that  French  oligarch  was  a  humanitarian ;  most 
oligarchs  are.  Perhaps  when  he  told  the  peasants 
to  eat  grass  he  was  recommending  to  them  the 
hygienic  simplicity  of  a  vegetarian  restaurant.  But 
that  is  an  irrelevant,  though  most  fascinating, 
speculation.  The  point  here  is  that  if  a  nation  is 
really  vegetarian  let  its  government  force  upon  it 
the  whole  horrible  weight  of  vegetarianism.  Let 
its  government  give  the  national  guests  a  State 
vegetarian  banquet.  Let  its  government,  in  the 
most  literal  and  awful  sense  of  the  words,  give 
them  beans.  That  sort  of  tyranny  is  all  very  well ; 
for  it  is  the  people  tyrannising  over  all  the  persons. 
But  "temperance  reformers"  are  like  a  small 
5 


All  Thiiifrs  Considered 


group  of  vegetarians  who  should  silently  and 
systematically  act  on  an  ethical  assumption  entirely 
unfamiliar  to  the  mass  of  the  people.  They  would 
always  be  giving  peerages  to  greengrocers.  They 
would  always  be  appointing  Parliamentary  Com- 
missions to  enquire  into  the  private  life  of  butchers. 
Whenever  they  found  a  man  quite  at  their  mercy, 
as  a  pauper  or  a  convict  or  a  lunatic,  they  would 
force  him  to  add  the  final  touch  to  his  inhuman 
isolation  by  becoming  a  vegetarian.  All  the  meals 
for  school  children  will  be  vegetarian  meals.  All 
the  State  public  houses  will  be  vegetarian  public 
houses.  There  is  a  very  strong  case  for  vege- 
tarianism as  compared  with  teetotalism.  Drinking 
one  glass  of  beer  cannot  by  any  philosophy  be 
drunkenness;  but  killing  one  animal  can.  by  this 
philosophy,  be  murder.  Tiie  objection  to  both 
processes  is  not  that  the  two  creeds,  teetotal  and 
vegetarian,  are  not  admissible;  it  is  simply  that 
they  are  not  admitted.  The  thing  is  religious 
persecution  because  it  is  not  based  on  the  existing 
religion  of  the  democracy.  These  people  ask  the 
poor  to  accept  in  practice  what  they  know  perfectly 
well  that  the  poor  would  not  accept  in  theory. 
That  is  the  very  definition  of  religious  persecution. 
I  was  against  the  Tory  attempt  to  force  upon 
ordinary  Englishmen  a  Catholic  theology  in  which 
they  do  not  believe.  I  am  even  more  against 
6 


The  Case  for  the  Ephemeral 

the   attempt   to  force   upon  them  a  Mohamedan 
moraUty  which  they  actively  deny. 

Again,  in  the  case  of  anonymous  journaUsm  I 
seem  to  have-said  a  great  deal  without  getting  out 
the  point  very  clearly.  Anonymous  journalism  is 
dangerous,  and  is  poisonous  in  our  existing  life 
simply  because  it  is  so  rapidly  becoming  an 
anonymous  life.  That  is  the  horrible  thing  about 
our  contemporary  atmosphere.  Society  is  be- 
coming a  secret  society.  The  modern  tyrant  is 
evil  because  of  his  elusiveness.  He  is  more  name- 
less than  his  slave.  He  is  not  more  of  a  bully 
than  the  tyrants  of  the  past ;  but  he  is  more  of  a 
coward.  The  rich  publisher  may  treat  the  poor 
poet  better  or  worse  than  the  old  master  workman 
treated  the  old  apprentice.  But  the  apprentice  ran 
away  and  the  master  ran  after  him.  Nowadays  it 
is  the  poet  who  pursues  and  tries  in  vain  to  fix  the 
fact  of  responsibility.  It  is  the  publisher  who 
runs  away.  The  clerk  of  Mr.  Solomon  gets  the 
sack  :  the  beautiful  Greek  slave  of  the  Sultan 
Suliman  also  gets  the  sack ;  or  the  sack  gets  her. 
But  though  she  is  concealed  under  the  black  waves 
of  the  Bosphorus,  at  least  her  destroyer  is  not 
concealed.  He  goes  behind  golden  trumpets 
riding  on  a  white  elephant.  But  in  the  case  of  the 
clerk  it  is  almost  as  difficult  to  know  where  the 
dismissal  comes  from  as  to  know  where  the  clerk 
7 


All  Thiii[rs  Considered 

o 

goes  to.  It  may  be  Mr.  Solomon  or  Mr.  Solomon's 
manager,  or  Mr.  Solomon's  rich  aunt  in  Chelten- 
ham, or  Mr.  Solomon's  rich  creditor  in  Berlin. 
The  elaborate  machinery  which  was  once  used  to 
make  men  responsible  is  now  used  solely  in  order 
to  shift  the  responsibility.  People  talk  about  the 
pride  of  lyrants  ;  but  we  in  this  age  are  not  suffer- 
ing from  the  j'ride  of  tyrants.  We  are  suffering 
from  the  shyness  of  tyrants  ;  from  the  shrinking 
modesty  of  tyrants.  Therefore  we  must  not  en- 
courage leader-writers  to  be  shy ;  we  must  not 
inflame  their  already  exaggerated  modesty,  Ralher 
we  must  attempt  to  lure  ihem  to  be  vain  and 
ostentatious  ;  so  that  through  ostentation  they  may 
at  last  find  their  way  to  honesty. 

The  last  indictment  against  this  book  is  the  worst 
of  all.  It  is  simply  this  :  that  if  all  goes  well 
this  book  w'ill  be  unintelligible  gibberish.  For  it 
is  mostly  concerned  with  attacking  attitudes  wliich 
are  in  their  nature  accidental  and  incapable  of 
endurmg.  Brief  as  is  the  career  of  £uch  a  book  as 
this,  it  may  last  just  twenty  minutes  longer  than 
most  of  the  philosophies  that  it  attacks.  In  the 
end  it  will  not  matter  to  us  whether  we  wrote  well 
or  ill ;  whether  we  fought  with  flails  or  reeds.  It 
will  matter  to  us  greatly  on  wliat  side  we  fought. 


Cockneys  and  their  Jokes        Q        O 

A  WRITER  in  the  Vorh'/iire  Evening  Post  is 
^^  very  angry  indeed  with  my  performances  in 
this  cokmin.  His  precise  terms  of  reproach  are, 
"Mr.  G,  K.  Chesterton  is  not  a  humourist:  not 
even  a  Cockney  humourist,"  I  do  not  mind  his 
saying  that  I  am  not  a  humourist — in  wliich  (to 
tell  the  truth)  I  think  he  is  quite  right.  But  I 
do  resent  his  saying  tliat  I  am  not  a  Cockney. 
That  envenomed  arrow,  I  admit,  went  home.  If 
a  French  writer  said  of  me,  "  He  is  no  meta- 
physician :  not  even  an  English  metaphysician," 
I  could  swallow  the  insult  to  my  metaphysics, 
but  I  should  feel  angry  about  the  insult  to  my 
country.  So  I  do  not  urge  that  I  am  a 
humourist ;  but  I  do  insist  that  I  am  a  Cockney. 
If  I  were  a  humourist,  I  should  certainly  be  a 
Cockney  humourist ;  if  I  were  a  saint,  I  should 
certainly  be  a  Cockney  saint.  I  need  not  recite 
the  splendid  catalogue  of  Cockney  saints  who 
9 


All  Thlno;s  Considered 


Ikive  written  their  names  on  our  noble  old  City 
clnirches.  I  need  not  trouble  you  with  the  long  list 
of  the  Cockney  humourists  who  have  discharged 
their  bills  (or  failed  to  discharge  them)  in  our  noble 
old  City  taverns.  We  can  weep  together  over  the 
pathos  of  the  poor  Yorkshireman,  whose  county 
has  never  produced  some  humour  not  intelligible 
to  the  rest  of  the  world.  And  we  can  smile 
together  when  he  says  that  somebody  or  other 
is  "  not  even  "  a  Cockney  humourist  like  Samuel 
Johnson  or  Charles  Lamb.  It  is  surely  sufficiently 
obvious  that  all  the  best  humour  that  exists  in 
our  language  is  Cockney  humour.  Chaucer  was 
a  Cockney;  he  had  his  house  close  to  the  Abbey. 
Dickens  was  a  Cockney ;  he  said  he  could  not 
think  without  the  London  streets.  The  London 
taverns  heard  always  the  quaintest  conversation, 
whether  it  was  Ben  Jonson's  at  the  Mermaid  or 
Sam  Johnson's  at  the  Cock.  Even  in  our  own 
time  it  may  be  noted  that  the  most  vital  and 
genuine  humour  is  still  written  about  London. 
Of  this  type  is  the  mild  and  humane  irony  which 
marks  Mr.  Pett  Ridge's  studies  of  the  small  grey 
streets.  Of  this  type  is  the  simple  but  smashing 
laughter  of  the  best  tales  of  Mr.  W.  W.  Jacobs, 
telling  of  the  smoke  and  sparkle  of  the  Thames. 
No ;  I  concede  that  I  am  not  a  Cockney  humourist. 
No ;  I  am  not  worthy  to  be.    Some  time,  after  sad 


Cockneys  and  their  Jokes 

and  strenuous  after-lives ;  some  time,  after  fierce 
and  apocalyptic  incarnations ;  in  some  strange 
world  beyond  the  stars,  I  may  become  at  last  a 
Cockney  humourist.  In  that  potential  paradise 
I  may  walk  among  the  Cockney  humourists,  if 
not  an  equal,  at  least  a  companion.  I  may  feel 
for  a  moment  on  my  shoulder  the  hearty  hand 
of  Dryden  and  thread  the  labyrinths  of  the 
sweet  insanity  of  Lamb.  But  that  could  only 
be  if  I  were  not  only  much  cleverer,  but  much 
better  than  1  am.  Before  I  reach  that  sphere  I 
shall  have  left  behind,  perhaps,  the  sphere  that 
is  inhabited  by  angels,  and  even  passed  that 
which  is  appropriated  exclusively  to  the  use  of 
Yorkshiremen. 

No;  London  is  in  this  matter  attacked  upon 
its  strongest  ground.  London  is  the  largest  of 
the  bloated  modern  cities;  London  is  the  smokiest ; 
London  is  the  dirtiest ;  London  is,  if  you  will,  the 
most  sombre  ;  London  is,  if  you  will,  the  most 
miserable.  But  London  is  certainly  the  most 
amusing  and  the  most  amused.  You  may  prove 
that  we  have  the  most  tragedy;  the  fact  remains 
that  we  have  the  most  comedy,  that  we  have  the 
most  farce.  We  have  at  the  very  worst  a  splendid 
hypocrisy  of  humour.  We  conceal  our  sorrow 
behind  a  screaming  derision.  You  speak  of  people 
who  laugh  through  their    tears ;    it  is  our   boast 


All  Things  Considered 

tliat  we  only  weep  through  our  laughter.  There 
remains  always  this  great  boast,  perhaps  tlie 
greatest  boast  that  is  possible  to  human  nature. 
I  mean  the  great  boast  that  the  most  unhappy  part 
of  our  population  is  also  the  most  hilarious  part. 
The  poor  can  forget  that  social  problem  which 
we  (the  moderately  rich)  ought  never  to  forget. 
Blessed  are  the  poor ;  for  they  alone  have  not  the 
poor  always  with  them.  The  honest  poor  can 
sometimes  forget  poverty.  The  honest  ricli  can 
never  forget  it. 

I  believe  firmly  in  the  value  of  all  vulgar  notions, 
especially  of  vulgar  jokes.  When  once  you  have 
got  hold  of  a  vulgar  joke,  you  may  be  certain  that 
you  have  got  hold  of  a  subtle  and  spiritual  idea. 
The  men  who  made  the  joke  saw  something  deep 
which  they  could  not  express  except  by  something 
silly  and  emphatic.  They  saw  something  delicate 
which  they  could  only  express  by  something 
indelicate.  I  remember  that  Mr.  Max  Beerbohm 
(who  has  every  merit  except  democracy)  attempted 
to  analyse  the  jokes  at  which  the  mob  laughs.  He 
divided  them  into  three  sections :  jokes  about 
bodily  humiliation,  jokes  about  things  alien,  such 
as  foreigners,  and  jokes  about  bad  cheese.  Mr. 
Max  Beerbohm  thought  he  understood  the  first 
two  forms;  but  I  am  not  sure  that  he  did.  In 
order   to    understand    vulgar    humour    it    is   not 

12 


Cockneys  and  their  Jokes 

enough  to  be  humorous.  One  must  also  be  vulgar, 
as  I  am.  And  in  the  first  case  it  is  surely  obvious 
that  it  is  not  merely  at  the  fact  of  something  being 
hurt  that  we  laugh  (as  I  trust  we  do)  when  a 
Prime  Minister  sits  down  on  his  hat.  If  that  were 
so  we  should  laugh  whenever  we  saw  a  funeral. 
We  do  not  laugh  at  the  mere  fact  of  something 
falling  down ;  there  is  nothing  humorous  about 
leaves  falling  or  the  sun  going  down.  When 
our  house  falls  down  we  do  not  laugh.  All  the 
birds  of  the  air  might  drop  around  us  in  a  per- 
petual shower  like  a  hailstorm  without  arousing  a 
smile.  If  you  really  ask  yourself  why  we  laugh 
at  a  man  sitting  down  suddenly  in  the  street  you 
will  discover  that  the  reason  is  not  only  recondite, 
but  ultimately  religious.  All  the  jokes  about  men 
sitting  down  on  their  hats  are  really  theological 
jokes;  they  are  concerned  with  the  Dual  Nature 
of  Man.  They  refer  to  the  primary  paradox  that 
man  is  superior  to  all  the  things  around  him  and 
yet  is  at  their  mercy. 

Quite  equally  subtle  and  spiritual  is  the  idea  at 
the  back  of  laughing  at  foreigners.  It  concerns 
the  almost  torturing  truth  of  a  thing  being 
like  oneself  and  yet  not  like  oneself.  Nobody 
laughs  at  what  is  entirely  foreign  ;  nobody  laughs 
at  a  palm  tree.  But  it  is  funny  to  see  the  familiar 
image  of  God  disguised  behind  the  black  beard 


All  Things  Considered 

of  a  Frencliman  or  the  black  face  of  a  Negro. 
There  is  nothing  funny  in  the  sounds  that  are 
wholly  inhuman,  the  howling  of  wild  beasts  or 
of  the  wind.  But  if  a  man  begins  to  talk  like 
oneself,  but  all  the  syllables  come  out  different, 
then  if  one  is  a  man  one  feels  inclined  to  laugh, 
though  if  one  is  a  genileraan  one  resists  the 
inclination. 

Mr.  Max  Beerbohm,  I  remember,  professed  to 
understand  the  first  two  forms  of  popular  wit,  but 
said  that  the  third  quite  stumped  him.  He  could 
not  see  why  there  should  be  anything  funny  about 
bad  cheese.  I  can  tell  him  at  once.  He  has 
missed  the  idea  because  it  is  subtle  and  i)hilo- 
sophical,  and  he  was  looking  for  something 
ignorant  and  foolish.  Bad  cheese  is  funny  be- 
cause it  is  (like  the  foreigner  or  the  man  fallen 
on  the  pavement)  the  type  of  the  transition  or 
transgression  across  a  great  mystical  boundary. 
Bad  cheese  symbolises  the  change  from  the 
inorganic  to  the  organic.  Bad  cheese  symbolises 
the  startling  prodigy  of  matter  taking  on  vitality. 
It  symbolises  the  origin  of  life  itself.  And  it  is 
only  about  such  solemn  matters  as  the  origin 
of  life  that  the  democracy  condescends  to  joke. 
Thus,  for  instance,  the  democracy  jokes  about 
marriage,  because  marriage  is  a  part  of  mankind. 
But  the  democracy  would  never  deign  to  juke 
•4 


Cockneys  and  their  Jokes 

about  Free  Love,  because  Free  Love  is  a  piece  of 
priggishness. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  will  be  generally  found 
that  the  popular  joke  is  not  true  to  the  letter,  but 
is  true  to  the  spirit.  The  vulgar  joke  is  generally 
in  the  oddest  way  the  truth  and  yet  not  the  fact. 
For  instance,  it  is  not  in  the  least  true  that  mothers- 
in-law  are  as  a  class  oppressive  and  intolerable ; 
most  of  them  are  both  devoted  and  useful.  All  the 
mothers-in-law  I  have  ever  had  were  admirable. 
Yet  the  legend  of  the  comic  papers  is  profoundly 
true.  It  draws  attention  to  the  fact  that  it  is  much 
harder  to  be  a  nice  mother-in-law  than  to  be  nice 
in  any  other  conceivable  relation  of  life.  The 
caricatures  have  drawn  the  worst  mother-in-law  a 
monster,  by  way  of  expressing  the  fact  that  the 
best  mother-in-law  is  a  problem.  The  same  is  true 
of  the  perpetual  jokes  in  comic  papers  about 
shrewish  wives  and  henpecked  husbands.  It  is 
all  a  frantic  exaggeration,  but  it  is  an  exaggeration 
of  a  truth ;  whereas  all  the  modern  mouthings 
about  oppressed  women  are  the  exaggerations  of 
a  falsehood.  If  you  read  even  the  best  of  the 
intellectuals  of  to-day  you  will  find  them  saying 
that  in  the  n:ass  of  the  democracy  the  woman  is 
the  chattel  of  her  lord,  like  his  bath  or  his  bed. 
But  if  you  read  the  comic  literature  of  the 
democracy  you  will  find  that  the  lord  hides  under 


All  Things  Considered 

the  bed  to  escape  from  the  wrath  of  his  chattel. 
This  is  not  the  fact,  but  it  is  much  nearer  the 
truth.  Every  man  who  is  married  knows  quite 
well,  not  only  that  he  does  not  regard  his  wife  as  a 
chattel,  but  that  no  man  can  conceivably  ever  have 
done  so.  The  joke  stands  for  an  ultimate  truth, 
and  that  is  a  subtle  truth.  It  is  one  not  very 
easy  to  state  correctly.  It  can,  perhaps,  be  most 
correctly  stated  by  saying  that,  even  if  the  man 
is  the  head  of  the  house,  he  knows  he  is  the 
figure-head. 

But  the  vulgar  comic  papers  are  so  subtle  and 
true  that  they  are  even  prophetic.  If  you  really 
want  to  know  what  is  going  to  happen  to  the 
future  of  our  democracy,  do  not  read  the  modern 
sociological  prophecies,  do  not  read  even  Mr. 
Wells's  Utopias  for  this  purpose,  though  you 
should  certainly  read  them  if  you  are  fond  of 
good  honesty  and  good  English.  If  you  want  to 
know  what  will  happen,  study  the  pages  of  S/iap 
or  Paichy  Bifs  as  if  they  were  the  dark  tablets 
graven  with  the  oracles  of  the  gods.  For,  mean 
and  gross  as  they  are,  in  all  seriousness,  they  con- 
tain what  is  entirely  absent  from  all  Utopias  and 
all  the  sociological  conjectures  of  our  time :  they 
contain  some  hint  of  the  actual  habits  and 
manifest  desires  of  the  English  people.  If  we 
are  really  to  find  out  what  the  democracy  will 
i6 


Cockneys  and  their  Jokes 

ultimately  do  with  itself,  we  shall  surely  find 
it,  not  in  the  literature  which  studies  the 
people,  but  in  the  literature  which  the  people 
studies. 

I  can  give  two  chance  cases  in  which  the  common 
or  Cockney  joke  was  a  much  better  prophecy 
than  the  careful  observations  of  the  most  cultured 
observer.  When  England  was  agitated,  previous 
to  the  last  General  Election,  about  the  existence 
of  Chinese  labour,  there  was  a  distinct  difference 
between  the  tone  of  the  politicians  and  the  tone 
of  the  populace.  The  politicians  who  disapproved 
of  Chinese  labour  were  most  careful  to  explain 
that  they  did  not  in  any  sense  disapprove  of 
Chinese.  According  to  them,  it  was  a  pure  ques- 
tion of  legal  propriety,  of  whether  certain  clauses 
in  the  contract  of  indenture  were  not  inconsistent 
with  our  constitutional  traditions :  according  to 
them,  the  case  would  have  been  the  same  if  the 
people  had  been  Kaffirs  or  Englishmen.  It  all 
sounded  wonderfully  enlightened  and  lucid  ;  and 
in  comparison  the  popular  joke  looked,  of  course, 
very  poor.  For  the  popular  joke  against  the 
Chinese  labourers  was  simply  that  they  were 
Chinese;  it  was  an  objection  to  an  alien  type; 
the  popular  papers  were  full  of  gibes  about  pigtails 
and  yellow  faces.  It  seemed  that  the  Liberal 
politicians  were  raising  an  intellectual  objection 
c  17 


All  Things   Considered 

to  a  doubtful  document  of  State ;  while  it  seemed 
that  the  Radical  populace  were  merely  roaring 
with  idiotic  laughter  at  the  sight  of  a  Chinaman's 
clothes.  But  the  popular  instinct  was  justified,  for 
the  vices  revealed  were  Chinese  vices. 

But  there  is  another  case  more  pleasant  and 
more  up  to  date.  The  popular  papers  always  per- 
sisted in  representing  the  New  Woman  or  the 
Suffragette  as  an  ugly  woman,  fat,  in  spectacles, 
with  bulging  clothes,  and  generally  falling  off  a 
bicycle.  As  a  matter  of  plain  external  fact,  there 
was  not  a  word  of  truth  in  this.  The  leaders  of 
the  movement  of  female  emancipation  are  not  at 
all  ugly ;  most  of  them  are  extraordinarily  good- 
looking.  Nor  are  they  at  all  indifferent  to  art 
or  decorative  costume  j  many  of  them  are  alarm- 
ingly attached  to  these  things.  Yet  the  popular 
instinct  was  right.  For  the  popular  instinct  was 
that  in  this  movement,  rightly  or  wrongly,  there 
was  an  element  of  indifference  to  female  dignity, 
of  a  quite  new  willingness  of  women  to  be 
grotesque.  These  women  did  truly  despise  the 
pontifical  quality  of  woman.  And  in  our  streets 
and  around  our  Parliament  we  have  seen  the 
stately  woman  of  art  and  culture  turn  into  the 
comic  woman  of  Coffiic  JSifs.  And  whether 
we  think  the  exhibition  justifiable  or  not,  the 
prophecy  of  the  comic  papers  is  justified ;  the 
iS 


Cockneys  and  their  Jokes 

healthy  and  vulgar  masses  were  conscious  of 
a  hidden  enemy  to  iheir  traditions  who  has  now 
come  out  into  the  daylight,  that  the  scriptures 
might  be  fulfilled.  For  the  two  things  that  a 
healthy  person  hates  most  between  heaven  and 
hell  arc  a  woman  who  is  not  dignified  and  a 
man  who  is. 


The  Fallacy  of  Success        ©        O        © 

nPHERE  has  appearec^  in  our  time  a  particular 
class  of  books  and  articles  which  I  sincerely 
and  solemnly  think  may  be  called  the  silliest  ever 
known  among  men.  They  are  much  more  wild 
than  the  wildest  romances  of  chivalry  and  much 
more  dull  than  the  dullest  religious  tract.  More- 
over, the  romances  of  chivalry  were  at  least  about 
chivalry ;  the  religious  tracts  are  about  religion. 
But  these  things  are  about  nothing  ;  they  are 
about  what  is  called  Success.  On  every  book- 
stall, in  every  magazine,  you  may  find  works 
telling  people  how  to  succeed.  They  are  books 
showing  men  how  to  succeed  in  everything ;  they 
are  written  by  men  who  cannot  even  succeed  in 
writing  books.  To  begin  with,  of  course,  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  Success.  Or,  if  you  like  to 
put  it  so,  there  is  nothing  that  is  not  successful. 
That  a  thing  is  successful  merely  means  that  it 
is  ;  a  millionaire  is  successful  in  lieing  a  millionaire 
and  a    donkey  in  being  a  donkey.    Any  live  man 

21 


All  Things  Considered 

lias  succeeded  in  living;  any  dead  man  may  have 
succeeded  in  committing  suicide.  But,  passing 
over  the  bad  logic  and  bad  philosophy  in  the 
phrase,  we  may  lake  it,  as  tliese  writers  do,  in  tlic 
ordinary  sense  of  success  in  obtaining  money  or 
worldly  position.  These  writers  profess  to  tell 
the  ordinary  man  how  he  may  succeed  in  his 
trade  or  speculation — how,  if  he  is  a  builder,  he 
may  succeed  as  a  builder ;  how,  if  he  is  a  stock- 
broker, he  may  succeed  as  a  stockbroker.  They 
profess  to  show  him  how,  if  he  is  a  grocer,  he  may 
become  a  sporting  yachtsman ;  how,  if  he  is  a 
tenth-iate  journalist,  he  may  become  a  peer ;  and 
how,  if  he  is  a  German  Jew,  he  may  become  an 
Anglo  Saxon.  This  is  a  definite  and  business-like 
proposal,  and  I  really  think  that  the  people  who 
buy  these  books  (if  any  people  do  buy  them)  have 
a  moral,  if  not  a  legal,  right  to  ask  for  their  money 
back.  Nobody  would  dare  to  publish  a  book 
about  electricity  which  literally  told  one  nothing; 
about  electricity ;  no  one  would  dare  to  publish 
an  article  on  botany  which  showed  that  the  writer 
did  not  know  which  end  of  a  i)lant  grew  in  the 
earth.  Yet  our  modern  world  is  full  of  books 
about  Success  and  successful  people  which  literally 
contain  no  kind  of  idea,  and  scarcely  any  kind 
of  verbal  sense. 

It    is    perfectly    obvious    that    in    any    decent 

22 


The  Fallacy  of  Success 

occupation  (such  as  bricklaying  or  writing  books) 
there  are  only  two  ways  (in  any  special  sense)  of 
succeeding.  One  is  by  doing  very  good  work,  the 
other  is  by  cheating.  Both  are  much  too  simple 
to  require  any  literary  explanation.  If  you  are 
in  for  the  high  jump,  either  jump  higher  than 
any  one  else,  or  manage  somehow  to  pretend  that 
you  have  done  so.  If  you  want  to  succeed  at 
whist,  either  be  a  good  whist-player,  or  play  with 
marked  cards.  You  may  want  a  book  about 
jumping;  you  may  want  a  book  about  whist; 
you  may  want  a  book  about  cheating  at  whist. 
But  you  cannot  want  a  book  about  Success. 
Especially  you  cannot  want  a  book  about  Success 
such  as  those  which  you  can  now  find  scattered 
by  the  hundred  about  the  book-market.  You 
may  want  to  jump  or  to  play  cards ;  but  you  do 
not  want  to  read  wandering  statements  to  the 
effect  that  jumping  is  jumping,  or  that  games  are 
won  by  winners.  If  these  writers,  for  instance, 
said  anything  about  success  in  jumping  it  would 
be  something  like  this  :  "  The  jumper  must  have 
a  clear  aim  before  him.  He  must  desire  definitely 
to  jump  higher  than  the  other  men  who  are  in 
for  the  same  competition.  He  must  let  no  feeble 
feelings  of  mercy  (sneaked  from  the  sickening 
Little  Englanders  and  Pro-Boers)  prevent  him 
from  trying  to  do  /lis  best  He  must  remember 
23 


All  Things  Considered 

that  a  competition  in  jumping  is  distinctly  com- 
petitive, and  that,  as  Darwin  has  gloriously  demon- 
strated, THE  WEAKEST  GO  TO  THE  WALL."  That  is 
the  kind  of  thing  the  book  would  say,  and  very  use- 
ful it  would  be,  no  doubt,  if  read  out  in  a  low  and 
tense  voice  to  a  young  man  just  about  to  take  the 
high  jump.  Or  suppose  that  in  the  course  of  his 
intellectual  rambles  the  philosopher  of  Success 
dropped  upon  our  other  case,  that  of  playing 
cards,  his  bracing  advice  would  run — "  In  playing 
cards  it  is  very  necessary  to  avoid  the  mistake 
(conmionly  made  by  maudlin  humanitarians  and 
Free  Traders)  of  permitting  your  opponent  to  win 
the  game.  You  must  have  grit  and  snap  and  go 
in  to  win.  The  days  of  idealism  and  superstition 
are  over.  We  live  in  a  time  of  science  and  hard 
common  sense,  and  it  has  now  been  definitely 
proved  that  in  any  game  where  two  are  playing 

IF  ONE  DOES  NOT  WIN  THE  OTHER  WILL."      It  is  all 

very  stirring,  of  course ;  but  I  confess  that  if  I  were 
playing  cards  I  would  rather  have  some  decent 
little  book  which  told  me  the  rules  of  the  game. 
Beyond  the  rules  of  the  game  it  is  all  a  question 
either  of  talent  or  dishonesty;  and  I  will  undertake 
to  provide  either  one  or  the  other — which,  it  is  net 
for  me  to  say. 

Turning  over  a  popular  magazine,  I  find  a  queer 
and  amusing  example.     There  is  an  article  called 
24 


The  Fallacy  of  Success 

"  The  Instinct  that  JMakes  People  Rich."  It 
is  decorated  in  front  with  a  formidable  portrait 
of  Lord  Rothschild.  There  are  many  definite 
methods,  honest  and  dishonest,  which  make  people 
rich  ;  the  only  "  instinct "  I  know  of  which  does  it  is 
that  instinct  which  theological  Christianity  crudely 
describes  as  "  the  sin  of  avarice."  That,  however, 
is  beside  the  present  point.  I  wish  to  quote  the 
following  exquisite  paragraphs  as  a  piece  of  typical 
advice  as  to  how  to  succeed.  It  is  so  practical ; 
it  leaves  so  little  doubt  about  what  should  be  our 
next  step — 

"  The  name  of  Vanderbilt  is  synonymous  with 
wealth  gained  by  modern  enterprise.  *  Cornelius,' 
the  founder  of  the  family,  was  the  first  of  the  great 
American  magnates  of  commerce.  He  started  as 
the  son  of  a  poor  farmer  ;  he  ended  as  a  millionaire 
twenty  times  over, 

"He  had  the  money-making  instinct.  He  seized 
his  opportunities,  the  opportunities  that  were  given  by 
the  application  of  the  steam-engine  to  ocean  traffic, 
aiKl  by  the  birth  of  railway  locomotion  in  the  wealthy 
but  undeveloped  United  States  of  America,  and 
consequently  he  amassed  an  immense  fortune. 

"  Now  it  is,  of  course,  obvious  that  we  cannot  all 
follow  exactly  in  the  footsteps  of  this  great  railway 
monarch.  The  precise  opportunities  that  fell  to  him 
do  not  occur  to  us.  Circumstances  have  changed. 
But,  although  this  is  so,  still,  in  our  own  sphere  and 
in  our  own  circumstances,  we  can  follow  his  general 

25 


All  Things  Considered 

methods  ;  we  can  seize  those  opportunities  that  are 
given  us,  and  give  ourselves  a  very  fair  chance  of 
attaining  riches." 

In  such  strange  utterances  we  see  quite  clearly 
what  is  really  at  the  bottom  of  all  these  articles 
and  books.  It  is  not  mere  business ;  it  is  not 
even  mere  cynicism.  It  is  mysticism  ;  the  horrible 
mysticism  of  money.  The  writer  of  that  passage 
did  not  really  have  the  remotest  notion  of  how 
Vanderbilt  made  his  money,  or  of  how  anybody 
else  is  to  make  his.  He  does,  indeed,  conclude 
his  remarks  by  advocating  some  scheme ;  but  it 
has  nothing  in  the  world  to  do  with  Vanderbilt. 
He  merely  wished  to  prostrate  himself  before  the 
mystery  of  a  millionaire.  For  when  we  really 
worship  anytliing,  we  love  not  only  its  clearness 
but  its  obscurity.  We  exult  in  its  very  invisibilit}'. 
Thus,  for  instance,  when  a  man  is  in  love  with  a 
woman  he  takes  special  pleasure  in  the  fact  that 
a  woman  is  unreasonable.  Thus,  again,  the  very 
pious  poet,  celebrating  his  Creator,  takes  pleasure 
in  saying  that  God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way. 
Now,  the  writer  of  the  paragraph  which  I  have 
quoted  does  not  seem  to  have  had  anything  to 
do  with  a  god,  and  I  should  not  think  (judging 
by  his  extreme  unpracticality)  that  he  had  ever 
been  really  in  love  with  a  woman.  But  the  thing 
«6 


The  Fallacy  of  Success 

;  he  does  worship — Vanderbilt — he  treats  in  exactly 

I  this  myslical  manner.  He  really  revels  in  the  fact 
his  deity  Vanderbilt  is  keeping  a  secret  from  him, 

I  And  it  fills  his  soul  with  a  sort  of  transport  of 

I  cunning,  an  ecstasy  of  priestcraft,  that  he  should 

i  pretend  to  be  telling  to  the  multitude  that  terrible 

!  secret  which  he  does  not  know. 

']  Speaking  about  the  instinct  that  makes  people 

\  rich,  the  same  writer  remarks — • 

:  "  In  olden  days  its  existence  was  fully  understood. 
The  Greeks  enshrined  it  in  the  story  of  Midas,  of  the 
'  Golden  Touch.'  Here  was  a  man  who  turned 
everything  he  laid  his  hands  upon  into  gold.  His 
life  was  a  progress  amidst  riches.  Out  of  everything 
that  came  in  his  way  he  created  the  precious  metal. 
*  A  foolish  legend,'  said  the  wiseacres  of  the  Victorian 
age.  'A  truth,'  say  we  of  to-day.  We  all  know  of 
such  men.  We  are  ever  meeting  or  reading  about 
such  persons  who  turn  everything  they  touch  into 
gold.  Success  dogs  their  very  footsteps.  Their  life's 
pathway  leads  unerringly  upwards.    They  cannot  fail." 

Unfortunately,  however,  Midas  could  fail;  he 
did.  His  path  did  not  lead  unerringly  upward. 
He  starved  because  whenever  he  touched  a  biscuit 
or  a  ham  sandwich  it  turned  to  gold.  That  was 
the  whole  point  of  the  story,  though  the  writer 
has  to  suppress  it  delicately,  writing  so  near  to 
a  portrait  of  Lord  Rothschild.  The  old  fables 
of  mankind  are,  indeed,  unfathomably  wise;  but 
27 


All  Things  Considered 

we  must  not  have  them  expurgated  in  the  interests 
of  Mr.  Vanderbilt.  We  must  not  have  King 
Midas  represented  as  an  example  of  success;  he 
was  a  failure  of  an  unusually  painful  kind.  Also, 
he  had  the  cars  of  an  ass.  Also  (like  most  other 
prominent  and  wealthy  persons)  he  endeavoured  to 
conceal  the  fact.  It  was  his  barber  (if  I  remember 
right)  who  had  to  be  treated  on  a  confidential 
fooling  with  regard  to  this  peculiarity;  and  his 
barber,  instead  of  behaving  like  a  go-ahead  person 
of  the  Succeed-at-all-costs  school  and  trying  to 
blackmail  King  Midas,  went  away  and  whispered 
this  splendid  piece  of  society  scandal  to  the  reeds, 
who  enjoyed  it  enormously.  It  is  said  that  they 
also  whispered  it  as  the  winds  swayed  them  to 
and  fro.  I  look  reverently  at  the  portrait  of  Lord 
Rothschild ;  I  read  reverently  about  the  exploits 
of  Mr,  Vanderbilt.  I  know  that  I  cannot  turn 
everything  I  touch  to  gold;  but  then  I  also  know 
that  I  have  never  tried,  having  a  preference  for 
other  substances,  such  as  grass,  and  good  wine. 
I  know  that  these  people  have  certainly  succeeded 
in  something ;  that  they  have  certainly  overcome 
somebody ;  I  know  that  they  are  kings  in  a  sense 
that  no  men  were  ever  kings  before;  that  tliey 
create  markets  and  bestride  continents.  Yet  it 
always  seems  to  me  that  there  is  some  small 
domestic  fact  that  they  are  hiding,  and  I  have 
28 


The  Fallacy  of  Success 

sometimes  thought  I  heard  upon  the  wind  the 
laughter  and  whisper  of  the  reeds. 
I  At  least,  let  us  hope  that  we  shall  all  live  to  see 
[these  absurd  books  about  Success  covered  with  a 
'proper  derision  and  neglect.  They  do  not  teach 
I  people  to  be  successful,  but  they  do  teach  people 
ito  be  snobbisli ;  they  do  spread  a  sort  of  evil 
I  poetry  of  worldliness.  The  Puritans  are  always 
denouncing  books  that  inflame  lust ;  what  shall 
we  say  of  books  that  inflame  the  viler  passions 
of  avarice  and  pride?  A  hundred  years  ago  we 
had  the  ideal  of  the  Industrious  Apprentice ;  boys 
were  told  that  by  thrift  and  work  they  would  all 
become  Lord  Mayors.  This  was  fallacious,  but 
it 'was  manly,  and  had  a  minimum  of  moral  truth. 
In  our  society,  temperance  will  not  help  a  poor 

iiian  to  enrich  himself,  but  it  may  help  him  to 
espect  himself.  Good  work  will  not  make  him 
,  rich  man,  but  good  work  may  make  him  a  good 
rarkman.  The  Industrious  Apprentice  rose  by 
virtues  few  and  narrow  indeed,  but  still  virtues. 
But  what  shall  we  say  of  the  gospel  preached  to 
the  new  Industrious  Apprentice;  the  Apprentice 
who  rises  not  by  his  virtues,  but  avowedly  by  his 
vices  ? 


29 


On  running  after  One's  Hat       Q       ® 

T   FEEL  an  almost  savage  envy  on  hearing  that 
London   has   been   flooded   in   my  absence, 
while  I  am  in  the  mere  country.     My  own  Batter- 
sea  has  been,  I  understand,  particularly  favoured 
as  a  meeting  of  the  waters.    Battersea  was  already, 
as  I  need  hardly  say,  the  most  beautiful  of  human 
localities.     Now  that  it  has  the  additional  splen- 
dour  of  great   sheets   of    water,    there   must   be 
something  quite   incomparable  in   the   landscape 
(or  waterscape)  of  my  own  romaniic  town.     Batter- 
j  sea  must  be  a  vision  of  Venice.     The  boat  that 
brought  the  meat  from  the  butcher's  must  have 
shot  along  those  lanes  of  rippling  silver  with  the 
1  strange  smoothness  of  the  gondola.     The  green- 
'  grocer  who  brought  cabbages  to  the  corner  of  the 
\  Latchmere  Road  must  have  leant  upon  the  oar 
I  with  the  unearthly  grace  of  the  gondolier.     There 
i  is   nothing    so    perfectly   poetical   as   an    island ; 
land   when   a   district   is   flooded    it  becomes   an 
archipelago. 

3t 


All  Things  Considered 

Some  consider  such  romantic  views  of  flocd 
or  fire  sliglitly  lacking  in  reality.  But  really  this 
romantic  view  of  such  inconveniences  is  quite  as 
practical  as  the  other.  The  true  optimist  who 
sees  in  such  things  an  opportunity  for  enjoyment 
is  quite  as  logical  and  much  more  sensible  than 
the  ordinary  "Indignant  Ratepayer"  who  sees  in 
them  an  opportunity  for  grumbling.  Real  pain, 
as  in  the  case  of  being  burnt  at  Smitlifield  or 
having  a  toothache,  is  a  positive  thing  ;  it  can 
be  supported,  but  scarcely  enjoyed.  But,  after 
all,  our  toothaches  are  the  exception,  and  as  for 
being  burnt  at  Smithfield,  it  only  happens  to  us 
at  the  very  longest  intervals.  And  most  of  the 
inconveniences  that  make  men  swear  or  women 
cry  are  really  sentimental  or  imaginative  incon- 
veniences— things  altogether  of  the  mind.  Tor 
instance,  we  often  hear  grown-up  people  com- 
plaining of  having  to  hang  about  a  railway  station 
and  wait  for  a  train.  Did  you  ever  hear  a  small 
boy  complain  of  having  to  hang  about  a  railway 
station  and  wait  for  a  train?  No;  for  to  him 
to  be  inside  a  railway  station  is  to  be  inside 
a  cavern  of  wonder  and  a  palace  of  poetical 
pleasures.  Because  to  him  the  red  light  and  the 
green  light  on  the  signal  are  like  a  new  sun  and 
a  new  moon.  Because  to  him  when  the  wooden 
arm  of  the  signal  falls  down  sucMenly,  it  is  as  if 
32 


On  running  after  One's  Hat 

a  great  king  had  thrown  down  his  staff  as  a  signal 
and  started  a  shrieking  tournament  of  trains.  I 
myself  am  of  little  boys'  habit  in  this  matter. 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait  for  the 
two  fifteen.  Their  meditations  may  be  full  of 
rich  and  fruitful  things.  Many  of  the  most 
purple  hours  of  my  life  have  been  passed  at  Clap- 
ham  Junction,  which  is  now,  I  suppose,  under 
water.  I  have  been  there  in  many  moods  so  fixed 
and  mystical  that  the  water  might  well  have  come 
up  to  my  waist  before  I  noticed  it  particularly. 
But  in  the  case  of  all  such  annoyances,  as  I  have 
said,  everything  depends  upon  the  emotional  point 
of  view.  You  can  safely  apply  the  test  to  almost 
every  one  of  the  things  that  are  currently  talked 
of  as  the  typical  nuisance  of  daily  life. 

For  instance,  there  is  a  current  impression  that 
it  is  unpleasant  to  have  to  run  after  one's  hat. 
Why  should  it  be  unpleasant  to  the  well-ordered 
and  pious  mind  ?  Not  merely  because  it  is  running, 
and  running  exhausts  one.  The  same  people  run 
much  faster  in  games  and  sports.  The  same  people 
run  much  more  eagerly  after  an  uninteresting  little 
leather  ball  than  they  will  after  a  nice  silk  hat. 
There  is  an  idea  that  it  is  humiliating  to  run  after 
one's  hat ;  and  when  people  say  it  is  humiliating 
they  mean  that  it  is  comic.  It  certainly  is  comic ; 
but  man  is  a  very  comic  creature,  and  most  of  the 
D  33 


All  Things  Considered 

tilings  he  does  are  comic — eating,  for  instance. 
And  the  most  comic  things  of  all  are  exactly  the 
things  that  are  most  worth  doing — such  as  making 
love.  A  man  running  after  a  hat  is  not  half  so 
ridiculous  as  a  man  running  after  a  wife. 

Now  a  man  could,  if  he  felt  rightly  in  the 
matter,  run  after  his  hat  with  the  manliest  ardour 
and  the  most  sacred  joy.  He  might  regard  him- 
self as  a  jolly  huntsman  pursuing  a  wild  animal, 
for  certainly  no  animal  could  be  wilder.  In  fact, 
I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  hat-hunting  on  win  ly 
diys  will  be  the  sport  of  the  upjier  classes  in  the 
future.  There  will  be  a  meet  of  ladies  and  gentle- 
men on  some  high  ground  on  a  gusty  morning. 
They  will  be  told  that  the  professional  attendants 
have  started  a  hat  in  such-and-such  a  thicket,  or 
whatever  be  the  technical  term.  Notice  that  this 
employtiient  will  in  the  fullest  degree  combine 
sport  with  humanitarianism.  The  hunters  would 
feel  that  they  were  not  inflicting  pain.  Nay,  they 
,  would  feel  that  they  were  inflicting  pleasure,  rich, 
almost  riotous  pleasure,  upon  the  people  who  were 
looking  on.  When  last  I  saw  an  old  gentleman 
running  after  his  hat  in  Hyde  Park,  I  told  him  that 
a  heart  so  benevolent  as  his  ought  to  be  filled  with 
peace  and  thanks  at  the  thought  of  how  much 
unaffected  pleasure  his  every  gesture  and  bodily 
attitude  were  at  that  moment  giving  to  the  crowd. 
34 


On   running  after  One's   Hat 

The  same  principle  can  be  applied  to  every 
other  typical  domestic  worry,  A  gentleman  trying 
to  get  a  fly  out  of  the  milk  or  a  piece  of  cork  out 
of  his  glass  of  wine  often  imagines  himself  to  be 
irritated.  Let  him  think  for  a  moment  of  the 
patience  of  anglers  sitting  by  dark  pools,  and  let 
his  soul  be  immediately  irradiated  with  gratifica- 
tion and  repose.  Again,  I  have  known  some 
people  of  very  modern  views  driven  by  their 
distress  to  the  use  of  theological  terms  to  which 
they  attached  no  doctrinal  significance,  merely 
because  a  drawer  was  jammed  tight  and  they 
could  not  pull  it  out.  A  friend  of  mine  was 
particularly  aftlicted  in  this  way.  Every  day  his 
drawer  was  jammed,  and  every  day  in  consequence 
it  was  something  else  that  rhymes  to  it.  But  I 
pointed  out  to  him  that  this  sense  of  wrong  was 
really  subjective  and  relative;  it  rested  entirely 
upon  the  assumption  that  the  drawer  could, 
should,  and  would  come  out  easily.  "  But  if," 
I  said,  "  you  picture  to  yourself  that  you  are  pull- 
ing against  some  powerful  and  oppressive  enemy, 
the  struggle  will  become  merely  exciting  and  not 
exasperating.  Imagine  that  you  are  tugging  up 
a  lifeboat  out  of  the  sea.  Imagine  that  you  are 
roping  up  a  fellow-creature  out  of  an  Alpine 
crevass.  Imagine  even  that  you  are  a  boy  again 
and  engaged  in  a  tug-of-war  between  French  and 
35 


All  Things  Considered 

English."  Shortly  after  saying  this  I  left  him  j 
but  I  have  no  doubt  at  all  that  my  words  bore 
the  best  possible  fruit.  I  have  no  doubt  that 
every  day  of  his  life  he  hangs  on  to  the  handle 
of  that  drawer  with  a  flushed  face  and  eyes  bright 
with  battle,  uttering  encouraging  shouts  to  himself, 
and  seeming  to  hear  all  round  him  the  roar  of  an 
applauding  ring. 

So  I  do  not  think  that  it  is  altogether  fanciful 
or  incredible  to  suppose  that  even  the  floods  in 
London  may  be  accepted  and  enjoyed  poetically. 
Nothing  beyond  inconvenience  seems  really  to 
have  been  caused  by  them ;  and  inconvenience, 
as  I  have  said,  is  only  one  aspect,  and  that  the 
most  unimaginative  and  accidental  aspect  of  a 
really  romantic  situation.  An  adventure  is  only 
an  inconvenience  rightly  considered.  An  incon- 
venience is  only  an  adventure  wrongly  considered. 
The  water  that  girdled  the  houses  and  shops  of 
London  must,  if  anything,  have  only  increased 
their  previous  witchery  and  wonder.  For  as  the 
Roman  Catholic  priest  in  the  story  said :  "  Wine 
is  good  with  everything  except  water,"  and  on 
a  similar  principle,  water  is  good  with  everything 
except  wine. 


3«> 


The  Vote  and  the  House      ©00 

A /T  OST  of  us  will  be  canvassed  soon,  I  suppose ; 
some  of  us  may  even  canvass.  Upon  which 
side,  of  course,  nothing  will  induce  me  to  state, 
beyond  saying  that  by  a  remarkable  coincidence  it 
will  in  every  case  be  the  only  side  in  which  a  high- 
minded,  public-spirited,  and  patriotic  citizen  can 
take  even  a  momentary  interest.  But  the  general 
question  of  canvassing  itself,  being  a  non-party 
question,  is  one  which  we  may  be  permitted  to 
approach.  The  rules  for  canvassers  are  fairly 
familiar  to  any  one  who  has  ever  canvassed.  They 
are  printed  on  the  little  card  which  you  carry  about 
with  you  and  lose.  There  is  a  statement,  I  think, 
that  you  must  not  offer  a  voter  food  or  drink. 
However  hospitable  you  may  feel  towards  him  in 
his  own  house,  you  must  not  carry  his  lunch  about 
with  you.  You  must  not  produce  a  veal  cutlet 
from  your  tail-coat  pocket.  You  must  not  conceal 
poached  eggs  about  your  person.  You  must  not, 
like  a  kind  of  conjurer,  produce  baked  potatoes 
37 


All   Things  Considered 

from  your  hat.  In  short,  the  canvasser  must  not 
feed  the  voter  in  any  way.  Whether  the  voter  is 
allowed  to  feed  the  canvasser,  whether  ihfe  voter 
may  give  the  canvasser  veal  cutlets  and  baked 
potatoes,  is  a  point  of  law  on  which  I  have  never 
been  able  to  inform  myself.  Wiien  I  found  myself 
canvassing  a  gentleman,  I  have  sometimes  felt 
tempted  to  ask  him  if  there  was  any  rule  against 
his  giving  me  food  and  drink ;  but  the  matter 
seemed  a  delicate  one  to  approach.  His  attitude 
to  me  also  sometimes  suggested  a  doubt  as  to 
whether  he  would,  even  if  he  could.  But  there 
are  voters  who  might  find  it  worth  while  to  dis- 
cover if  there  is  any  law  against  bribing  a  can- 
vasser.    They  might  bribe  him  to  go  away. 

The  second  veto  for  canvassers  which  was  printed 
on  the  little  card  said  that  you  must  not  persuade 
any  one  to  personate  a  voter.  I  have  no  idea  what 
it  means.  To  dress  up  as  an  average  voter  seems 
a  little  vague.  There  is  no  well-recognised  uniform, 
as  far  as  I  know,  with  civic  waistcoat  and  patriotic 
whiskers.  The  enterprise  resolves  itself  into  one 
somewhat  similar  to  the  enterprise  of  a  rich  friend 
of  mine  who  went  to  a  fancy-dress  ball  dressed  up 
as  a  gentleman.  Perhaps  it  means  that  there  is  a 
practice  of  i^ersonating  some  individual  voter. 
The  canvasser  creeps  to  the  house  of  his  fellow- 
conspirator  carr)ing  a  make-up  in  a  bag.  lie 
38 


The  Vote  and  the  House 

produces  from  it  a  pair  of  white  moustaches  and  a 
single  eye-glass,  which  are  sufficient  to  give  the 
most  commonplace  person  a  startling  resemblance 
to  the  Colonel  at  No.  80.  Or  he  hurriedly  affixes 
to  his  friend  that  large  nose  and  that  bald  head 
which  are  all  that  is  essential  to  an  illusion  of  the 
presence  of  Professor  Badger.  I  do  not  undertake 
to  unravel  these  knots.  I  can  only  say  that  when 
I  was  a  canvasser  I  was  told  by  the  little  card,  with 
every  circumstance  of  seriousness  and  authority, 
that  I  was  not  to  persuade  anybody  to  personate 
a  voter :  and  I  can  lay  my  hand  upon  my  heart 
and  affirm  that  I  never  did. 

The  third  injunction  on  the  card  was  one  which 
seemed  to  me,  if  interpreted  exactly  and  according 
to  its  words,  to  undermine  the  very  foundations  of 
our  politics.  It  told  me  that  I  must  not  "  threaten 
a  voter  with  any  consequence  whatever."  No  doubt 
this  was  intended  to  apply  to  threats  of  a  personal 
and  illegitimate  character;  as,  for  instance,  if  a 
wealthy  candidate  were  to  threaten  to  raise  all  the 
rents,  or  to  put  up  a  statue  of  himself.  But  as 
verbally  and  grammatically  expressed,  it  certainly 
would  cover  those  general  threats  of  disaster  to  the 
whole  community  which  are  the  main  matter  of 
political  discussion.  When  a  canvasser  says  that 
if  the  opposition  candidate  gets  in  the  country 
will  be  ruined,  he  is  threatening  the  voters  with 
3? 


All  Things  Considered 

certain  consequences.  When  the  Free  Trader 
says  that  if  Tariffs  are  adopted  the  people  in 
Brompton  or  Bayswater  will  crawl  about  eating 
grass,  he  is  threatening  them  with  consequences. 
When  the  Tariff  Reformer  says  that  if  Free  Trade 
exists  for  another  year  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  will  be 
a  ruin  and  Ludgate  Hill  as  deserted  as  Stonehenge, 
he  is  also  threatening.  And  what  is  the  good  of 
being  a  Tariff  Reformer  if  you  can't  say  that? 
What  is  the  use  of  being  a  politician  or  a  Parlia- 
mentary candidate  at  all  if  one  cannot  tell  the 
people  that  if  the  other  man  gets  in,  England  will 
be  instantly  invaded  and  enslaved,  blood  be  pour- 
ing down  the  Strand,  and  all  the  English  ladies 
carried  off  into  harems.  But  these  things  are, 
after  all,  consequences,  so  to  speak. 

The  majority  of  refined  persons  in  our  day  may 
generally  be  heard  abusing  the  practice  of  can- 
vassing. In  the  same  way  the  majority  of  refined 
persons  (commonly  the  same  refined  persons)  may 
be  heard  abusing  the  practice  of  interviewing 
celebrities.  It  seems  a  very  singular  thing  to  me 
that  this  refined  world  reserves  all  its  indignation 
for  the  comparatively  open  and  innocent  element 
in  both  walks  of  life.  There  is  really  a  vast  amount 
of  corruption  and  hypocrisy  in  our  election  politics  ; 
about  the  most  honest  thing  in  the  whole  mess  is 
the    canvassing.     A  man  has  not  got  a  right  to 

1° 


The  Vote  and  the  House 

"  nurse  "  a  constituency  with  aggressive  charities, 
to  buy  it  with  great  presents  of  parks  and  Hbraries, 
to  open  vague  vistas  of  future  benevolence  ;  all  this, 
which  goes  on  unrebuked^  is  bribery  and  nothing 
else.  But  a  man  has  got  the  right  to  go  to  an- 
other free  man  and  ask  him  with  civility  whether  he 
will  vote  for  him.  The  information  can  be  asked, 
granted,  or  refused  without  any  loss  of  dignity 
on  either  side,  which  is  more  than  can  be  said  of  a 
park.  It  is  the  same  with  the  place  of  interview- 
ing in  journalism.  In  a  trade  where  there  are 
labyrinths  of  insincerity,  interviewing  is  about  the 
most  simple  and  the  most  sincere  thing  there  is. 
The  canvasser,  when  he  wants  to  know  a  man's 
opinions,  goes  and  asks  him.  It  may  be  a  bore  ; 
but  it  is  about  as  plain  and  straight  a  thing  as  he 
could  do.  So  the  interviewer,  when  he  wants  to 
know  a  man's  opinions,  goes  and  asks  him.  Again, 
it  may  be  a  bore ;  but,  again,  it  is  about  as  plain 
and  straight  as  anything  could  be.  But  all  the 
other  real  and  systematic  cynicisms  of  our  journal- 
ism pass  without  being  vituperated  and  even 
without  being  known — the  financial  motives  of 
policy,  the  misleading  posters,  the  suppression  of 
just  letters  of  complaint.  A  statement  about  a 
man  may  be  infamously  untrue,  but  it  is  read 
calmly.  But  a  statement  by  a  man  to  an  inter- 
viewer is  felt  as  indefensibly  vulgar.  That  the 
41 


All  Things  Considered 

paper  should  misrepresent  him  is  nothing ;  that  he 
should  represent  himself  is  bad  taste.  The  whole 
error  in  both  cases  lies  in  the  fact  that  the  refined 
persons  are  attacking  politics  and  journalism  on 
the  ground  of  vulgarity.  Of  course,  politics  and 
journalism  are,  as  it  happens,  very  vulgar.  But 
their  vulgarity  is  not  the  worst  thing  about  them. 
Things  are  so  bad  with  both  that  by  this  time  their 
vulgarity  is  the  best  thing  about  them.  Their 
vulgarity  is  at  least  a  noisy  thing ;  and  their  great 
danger  is  that  silence  that  always  comes  before 
decay.  The  conversational  persuasion  at  elections 
is  perfectly  human  and  rational ;  it  is  the  silent 
persuasions  that  are  utterly  damnable. 

If  it  is  true  that  the  Commons'  House  will  not 
hold  all  the  Commons,  it  is  a  very  good  example 
of  what  we  call  the  anomalies  of  the  English  Con- 
stitution. It  is  also,  I  think,  a  very  good  example 
of  how  highly  undesirable  those  anomalies  really 
are.  Most  Englishmen  say  that  these  anomalies 
do  not  matter ;  they  are  not  ashamed  of  being 
illogical ;  they  are  proud  of  being  illogical.  Lord 
Macaulay  (a  very  typical  Englishman,  romantic, 
prejudiced,  poetical).  Lord  Macaulay  said  that 
he  would  not  lift  his  hand  to  get  rid  of  an 
anomaly  that  was  not  also  a  grievance.  Many 
other  sturdy  romantic  Englishmen  say  the  same. 
They  boast  of  our  anomalies ;  they  boast  of  oui 
42 


The  Vote  and  the  House 

illogicality;  they  say  it  shows  what  a  practical 
people  we  are.  They  are  utterly  wrong.  Lord 
Macaulay  was  in  this  matter,  as  in  a  few  others, 
utterly  wrong.  Anomalies  do  matter  very  much, 
and  do  a  great  deal  of  harm  ;  abstract  illogicalities 
do  matter  a  great  deal,  and  do  a  great  deal  of 
harm.  And  this  for  a  reason  that  any  one  at  all 
acquainted  with  human  nature  can  see  for  himself. 
All  injustice  begins  in  the  mind.  And  anomalies 
accustom  the  mind  to  the  idea  of  unreason  and 
untruth.  Suppose  I  had  by  some  prehistoric  law 
the  power  of  forcing  every  man  in  Battersea  to 
nod  his  head  three  times  before  he  got  out  of 
bed.  The  practical  politicians  might  say  that 
this  power  was  a  harmless  anomaly  ;  that  it  was 
not  a  grievance.  It  could  do  my  subjects  no 
harm;  it  could  do  me  no  good.  The  people  of 
Bittersea,  they  would  say,  might  safely  submit  to 
it.  But  the  people  of  Battersea  could  not  safely 
submit  to  it,  for  all  that.  If  I  had  nodded  their 
heads  for  them  for  fifty  years  I  could  cut  off 
their  heads  for  them  at  the  end  of  it  with 
immeasurably  greater  ease.  For  there  would 
have  permanently  sunk  into  every  man's  mind 
the  notion  that  it  was  a  natural  thing  for  me  to 
have  a  fantastic  and  irrational  power.  They  would 
have  grown  accustomed  to  insanity. 

For,  in  order  th.it  men  should  resist  injustice, 
43 


All  Thino^s  Considered 


something  more  is  necessary  than  that  they  should 
think  injustice  unpleasant.  They  must  think  in- 
justice absurd;  above  all,  they  must  think  it 
startling.  They  must  retain  the  violence  of  a 
virgin  astonishment.  That  is  the  explanation  of 
the  singular  fact  which  must  have  struck  many 
people  in  the  relations  of  philosophy  and  reform. 
It  is  the  fact  (I  mean)  that  optimists  are  more 
practical  reformers  than  pessimists.  Superficially, 
one  would  imagine  that  the  railer  would  be  the 
reformer ;  that  the  man  who  thought  that  every- 
thing was  wrong  would  be  the  man  to  put 
everything  right.  In  historical  practice  the  thing 
is  quite  the  other  way ;  curiously  enough,  it 
is  the  man  who  likes  things  as  they  are  who 
really  makes  them  better.  The  optimist  Dickens 
has  achieved  more  reforms  than  the  pessimist 
Gissing,  A  man  like  Rousseau  has  far  too  rosy 
a  theory  of  human  nature  ;  but  he  produces  a 
revolution.  A  man  like  David  Hume  thinks  that 
almost  all  things  are  depressing;  but  he  is  a 
Conservative,  and  wishes  to  keep  them  as  they 
are.  A  man  like  Godwin  believes  existence  to 
be  kindly ;  but  he  is  a  rebel.  A  man  like  Carlyle 
believes  existence  to  be  cruel ;  but  he  is  a  Tory. 
Everywhere  the  man  who  alters  things  begins  by 
liking  things.  And  the  real  explanation  of  this 
success  of  the  optimistic  reformer,  of  this  failure 

44 


The  Vote  and  the  House 

of  the  pessimistic  reformer,  is,  after  all,  an 
explanation  of  sufficient  simplicity.  It  is  be- 
cause the  optimist  can  look  at  wrong  not  only 
with  indignation,  but  with  a  startled  indignation. 
When  the  pessimist  looks  at  any  infamy,  it  is  to 
him,  after  all,  only  a  repetition  of  the  infamy  of 
existence.  The  Court  of  Chancery  is  indefensible 
—like  mankind.  The  Inquisition  is  abominable — 
like  the  universe.  But  the  optimist  sees  injustice 
as  something  discordant  and  unexpected,  and  it 
stings  him  into  action.  The  pessimist  can  be 
enraged  at  wrong;  but  only  the  optimist  can  be 
surprised  at  it. 

And  it  is  the  same  with  the  relations  of  an 
anomaly  to  the  logical  mind.  The  pessimist 
resents  evil  (like  Lord  Macaulay)  solely  because 
it  is  a  grievance.  The  optimist  resents  it  also, 
because  it  is  an  anomaly  ;  a  contradiction  to  his 
conception  of  the  course  of  things.  And  it  is 
not  at  all  unimportant,  but  on  the  contrary 
most  important,  that  this  course  of  things  in 
politics  and  elsewhere  should  be  lucid,  explic- 
able, and  defensible.  When  people  have  got 
used  to  unreason  they  can  no  longer  be  startled 
at  injustice.  When  people  have  grown  familiar 
with  an  anomaly,  they  are  prepared  to  that 
extent  for  a  grievance ;  they  may  think  the 
grievance  grievous,  but  they  can  no  longer  think 
45 


All  Things  Considered 

it  strange.  Take,  if  only  as  an  excellent  cxanijile, 
the  very  matter  alluded  to  before  ;  I  mean  the 
seats,  or  rather  the  lack  of  seats,  in  the  House  of 
Commons.  Perhaps  it  is  true  that  under  the  best 
conditions  it  would  never  happen  that  every 
member  turned  up.  Perhaps  a  complete  attend- 
ance would  never  actually  be.  But  who  can  tell 
how  much  influence  in  keeping  members  away  may 
have  been  exerted  by  this  calm  assumption  that 
they  would  stop  away  ?  How  can  any  man  be 
expected  to  help  to  make  a  full  attendance  when 
he  knows  that  a  full  attendance  is  actually  for- 
bidden? How  can  the  men  who  make  up  the 
Chamber  do  their  duty  reasonably  when  the  very 
men  who  built  the  House  have  not  done  theirs 
reasonably  ?  If  the  trumpet  give  an  uncertain 
sound,  who  shall  prepare  himself  for  the  battle? 
And  what  if  the  remarks  of  the  trumpet  take  this 
form,  "I  charge  you  as  you  love  your  King  and 
country  to  come  to  this  Council  And  I  know  you 
won't." 


Conceit  and  Caricature       ©        ©       © 

T  F  a  man  must  needs  be  conceited,  it  is  certainly 
better  that  he  should  be  conceited  about  some 
merits  or  talents  that  he  does  not  really  possess. 
For  then  his  vanity  remains  more  or  less  super- 
ficial ;  it  remains  a  mere  mistake  of  fact,  like  that 
of  a  man  who  thinks  he  inherits  the  royal  blood  or 
thinks  he  has  an  infallible  system  for  Monte  Carlo. 
Because  the  merit  is  an  unreal  merit,  it  does  not 
corrupt  or  sophisticate  his  real  merits.  He  is 
vain  about  the  virtue  he  has  not  got;  but  he  miy 
be  humble  about  the  virtues  that  he  has  got.  His 
truly  honourable  qualities  remain  in  their  prim- 
ordial innocence;  he  cannot  see  them  and  he 
cannot  spoil  them.  If  a  man's  mind  is  erroneously 
possessed  with  the  idea  that  he  is  a  great  violinist, 
that  need  not  prevent  his  being  a  gentleman  and 
an  honest  man.  But  if  once  his  mind  is  possessed 
in  any  strong  degree  with  the  knowledge  that 
he  is  a  gentleman,  he  will  soon  cease  to  be 
one. 

47 


All  Things  Considered 

P.ut  there  is  a  third  kind  of  satisfaction  of  which 
I  have  noticed  one  or  two  examples  lately — another 
kind  of  satisfaction  which  is  neither  a  pleasure  in 
the  virtues  that  we  do  possess  nor  a  pleasure  in 
the  virtues  we  do  not  possess.  It  is  the  pleasure 
which  a  man  takes  in  the  presence  or  absence  of 
certain  things  in  himself  without  ever  adequately 
asking  himself  whether  in  his  case  they  con- 
stitute virtues  at  all.  A  man  will  plume  himself 
because  he  is  not  bad  in  some  particular  way, 
when  the  truth  is  that  he  is  not  good  enough  to 
be  bad  in  that  particular  way.  Some  priggish 
little  clerk  will  say,  "  I  have  reason  to  congratulate 
myself  that  I  am  a  civilised  person,  and  not  so 
bloodthirsty  as  the  Mad  Mullah."  Somebody 
ought  to  say  to  him,  "A  really  good  man  would 
be  less  bloodthirsty  than  the  Mullah.  But  you  are 
less  bloodthirsty,  not  because  you  are  more  of  a 
good  man,  but  because  you  are  a  great  deal  less 
of  a  man.  You  are  not  bloodthirsty,  not  because 
you  would  spare  your  enemy,  but  because  you 
would  run  away  from  him."  Or  again,  some 
Puritan  with  a  sullen  type  of  piety  would  say, 
"  I  have  reason  to  congratulate  myself  that  I  do 
not  worship  graven  images  like  the  old  heathen 
Greeks."  And  again  somebody  ought  to  say  to 
him,  "The  best  religion  may  not  worship  graven 
images,  because  it  may  see  beyond  them.  But  if 
48 


Conceit  and  Caricature 

you  do  not  worship  graven  images,  it  is  only 
because  you  are  mentally  and  morally  quite 
incapable  of  graving  them.  True  religion,  per- 
haps, is  above  idolatry.  But  you  are  below 
idolatry.  You  are  not  holy  enough  yet  to  wor- 
ship a  lump  of  stone." 

Mr.  F.  C.  Gould,  the  brilliant  and  felicitous 
caricaturist,  recently  delivered  a  most  interesting 
speech  upon  the  nature  and  atmosphere  of  our 
modern  English  caricature,  I  think  there  is 
really  very  little  to  congratulate  oneself  about 
in  the  condition  of  English  caricature.  There 
are  few  causes  for  pride;  probably  the  greatest 
cause  for  pride  is  Mr.  F.  C.  Gould.  But  Mr. 
F.  C.  Gould,  forbidden  by  modesty  to  adduce 
this  excellent  ground  for  optimism,  fell  back  upon 
saying  a  thing  which  is  said  by  numbers  of  other 
people,  but  has  not  perhaps  been  said  lately  with 
the  full  authority  of  an  eminent  cartoonist.  He 
said  that  he  thought  "  that  they  might  congratulate 
themselves  that  the  style  of  caricature  which  found 
acceptation  nowadays  was  very  different  from  the 
lampoon  of  the  old  days."  Continuing,  he  said, 
according  to  the  newspaper  report,  "On  looking 
back  to  the  political  lampoons  of  Rowlandson's 
and  Gilray's  time  they  would  find  them  coarse  and 
brutal.  In  some  countries  abroad  still,  'even  in 
America,'  the  method  of  political  caricature  was  of 
K  49 


All   Things  Considered 

the  bludgeon  kind.  The  fact  was  we  had  passed 
the  bludgeon  stage.  If  they  were  brutal  in  attack- 
ing a  man,  even  for  political  reasons,  they  roused 
sympathy  for  the  man  who  was  attacked.  What 
they  had  to  do  was  to  rub  in  the  point  they 
wanted  to  emphasise  as  gently  as  they  could." 
(Laughter  and  applause.) 

Anybody  reading  these  words,  and  anybody 
who  heard  them,  will  certainly  feel  that  there  is  in 
them  a  great  deal  of  truth,  as  well  as  a  great  deal 
of  geniality.  But  along  with  that  truth  and  with 
that  geniality  there  is  a  streak  of  that  erroneous 
type  of  optimism  which  is  founded  on  the  fallacy 
of  which  I  have  spoken  al  ove.  Before  we  con- 
gratulate ourselves  upon  the  absence  of  certain 
faults  from  our  nation  or  society,  we  ought  to 
ask  ourselves  why  it  is  that  these  faults  are 
absent.  Are  we  without  the  fault  because  we 
have  the  opposite  virtue?  Or  are  we  without  the 
fault  because  we  have  the  opposite  fault  ?  It  is  a 
good  thing  assuredly,  to  be  innocent  of  any  excess  ; 
but  let  us  be  sure  that  we  are  not  innocent  of 
excess  merely  by  being  guilty  of  defect.  Is  it 
really  true  that  our  English  political  satire  is  so 
moderate  because  it  is  so  magnanimous,  so  for- 
giving, so  saintly?  Is  it  penetrated  through  and 
through  with  a  mystical  charity,  with  a  psycho- 
logical tenderness?  Do  we  spare  the  feelings  of 
so 


Conceit  and  Caricature 

the  Cabinet  Minister  because  we  pierce  through 
all  his  apparent  crimes  and  follies  down  to  the 
dark  virtues  of  which  his  own  soul  is  unaware? 
Do  we  temper  the  wind  to  the  Leader  of  the 
Opposition  because  in  our  all-embracing  heart  we 
pity  and  cherish  the  struggling  spirit  of  the  Leader 
of  the  Opposition  ?  Briefly,  have  we  left  off  being 
brutal  because  we  are  too  grand  and  generous  to 
be  brutal?  Is  it  really  trae  that  we  are  betfe?-  than 
brutality?  Is  it  really  true  that  we  have  passed 
the  bludgeon  stage? 

I  fear  that  there  is,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
another  side  to  the  matter.  Is  it  not  only  too 
probable  that  the  mildness  of  our  political  satire, 
when  compared  with  the  political  satire  of  our 
fathers,  arises  simply  from  the  profound  unreality 
of  our  current  politics?  Rowlandson  and  Gilray 
did  not  fight  merely  because  they  were  naturally 
pothouse  pugilists;  they  fought  because  they  had 
something  to  fight  about.  It  is  easy  enough  to  be 
refined  about  things  that  do  not  matter;  but  men 
kicked  and  plunged  a  little  in  that  portentous 
wrestle  in  which  swung  to  and  fro,  alike  dizzy 
with  danger,  the  independence  of  England,  the 
independence  of  Ireland,  the  independence  of 
France,  If  we  wish  for  a  proof  of  this  fact  that 
the  lack  of  refinement  did  not  come  from  mere 
brutality,  the  proof  is  easy.  The  proof  is  that  in 
SI 


All  Things  Considered 

that  struggle  no  personalities  were  more  brutal 
than  the  really  refined  personalities.  None  were 
more  violent  and  intolerant  than  those  who  were 
by  nature  polished  and  sensitive.  Nelson,  for 
instance,  had  the  nerves  and  good  manners  of  a 
woman :  nobody  in  his  senses,  I  suppose,  would 
call  Nelson  "brutal."  But  when  he  was  touched 
upon  the  national  matter,  there  sprang  out  of  him 
a  spout  of  oaths,  and  he  could  only  tell  men  to 

"Kill!    kill!    kill   the   d d    Frenchmen."     It 

would  be  as  easy  to  take  examples  on  the  other 
side.  Camille  Desmoulins  was  a  man  of  much 
the  same  type,  not  only  elegant  and  sweet  in 
temper,  but  almost  tremulously  tender  and  humani- 
tarian. But  he  was  ready,  he  said,  "  to  embrace 
Liberty  upon  a  pile  of  corpses."  In  Ireland  there 
were  even  more  instances.  Robert  Emmet  was 
only  one  famous  example  of  a  whole  family  of  men 
at  once  sensitive  and  savage.  I  think  that  Mr. 
F.  C.  Gould  is  altogether  wrong  in  talking  of  this 
political  ferocity  as  if  it  were  some  sort  of  survival 
from  ruder  conditions,  like  a  flint  axe  or  a  hairy 
man.  Cruelty  is,  perhaps,  the  worst  kind  of  sin. 
Intellectual  cruelty  is  certainly  the  worst  kind  of 
cruelty.  But  there  is  nothing  in  tl^e  least  barbaric 
or  ignorant  about  intellectual  cruelty.  The  great 
Renaissance  artists  who  mixed  colours  exquisitely 
mixed  poisons  equally  exquisitely ;  the  great 
52 


Conceit  and  Caricature 

Renaissance  princes  who  designed  instruments  of 
music  also  designed  instruments  of  torture.  Bar- 
barity, malignity,  the  desire  to  hurt  men,  are  the  evil 
things  generated  in  atmospheres  of  intense  reality 
when  great  nations  or  great  causes  are  at  war. 
We  may,  perhaps,  be  glad  that  we  have  not  got 
them :  but  it  is  somewhat  dangerous  to  be  proud 
that  we  have  not  got  them.  Perhaps  we  are 
hardly  great  enough  to  have  them.  Perhaps  some 
great  virtues  have  to  be  generated,  as  in  men  like 
Nelson  or  Emmet,  before  we  can  have  these  vices 
at  all,  even  as  temptations.  I,  for  one,  believe 
that  if  our  caricaturists  do  not  hate  their  enemies, 
it  is  not  because  they  are  too  big  to  hate  them,  but 
because  their  enemies  are  not  big  enough  to  hate. 
I  do  not  think  we  have  passed  the  bludgeon  stage. 
I  believe  we  have  not  come  to  the  bludgeon 
stage.  We  must  be  better,  braver,  and  purer 
men  than  we  are  before  we  come  to  the  bludgeon 
stage. 

Let  us  then,  by  all  means,  be  proud  of  the 
virtues  that  we  have  not  got ;  but  let  us  not  be 
too  arrogant  about  the  virtues  that  we  cannot  help 
having.  It  may  be  that  a  man  living  on  a  desert 
island  has  a  right  to  congratulate  himself  upon  the 
fact  that  he  can  meditate  at  his  ease.  But  he  must 
not  congratulate  himself  on  the  fact  that  he  is  on 
a  desert  island,  and  at  the  same  time  congratulate 
53 


All  Things  Considered 

himself  on  the  self-restraint  he  shows  in  not  going 
to  a  ball  every  night.  Similarly  our  England  may 
have  a  right  to  congratulate  itself  upon  the  fact 
that  her  politics  arc  very  quiet,  amicable,  and 
humdrum.  But  she  must  not  congratulate  her- 
self upon  that  fact  and  also  congratulate  herself 
upon  the  self-restraint  she  shows  in  not  tearing 
herself  and  her  citizens  into  rags.  Between  two 
English  Privy  Councillors  polite  language  is  a 
mark  of  civilisation,  but  really  not  a  mark  of 
magnanimity. 

Allied  to  this  question  is  the  kindred  (jucslion  on 
which  we  so  often  hear  an  innocent  British  boast — 
the  fact  that  our  statesmen  arc  privately  on  very 
friendly  relations,  although  in  Parliament  they  sit 
on  ojjposite  sides  of  the  House.  Here,  again,  it  is 
as  well  to  have  no  illusions.  Our  statesmen  are 
not  monsters  of  mystical  generosity  or  insane 
logic,  who  are  really  able  to  hate  a  man  from 
three  to  twelve  and  to  love  him  from  twelve  to 
three.  If  our  social  relations  are  more  peaceful 
than  those  of  France  or  America  or  the  England 
of  a  hundred  years  ago,  it  is  simply  because  our 
politics  are  more  peaceful;  not  improbably  be- 
cause our  politics  are  more  fictitious.  If  our 
statesmen  agree  more  in  private,  it  is  for  the  very 
simple  reason  that  they  agree  more  in  public. 
And  the  reason  they  agree  so  much  in  Loth  cases 
54 


Conceit  and   Caricature 

is  really  that  they  belong  to  one  social  class ;  and 
therefore  the  dining  life  is  the  real  life.  Tory  and 
Liberal  statesmen  like  each  other,  but  it  is  not 
because  they  are  both  expansive :  it  is  because 
they  are  both  exclusive. 


55 


Patriotism  and  Sport         ®        0        ® 

T  NOTICE  that  some  papers,  especially  papers 
^  that  call  themselves  patriotic,  have  fallen  into 
quite  a  panic  over  the  fact  that  we  have  been 
twice  beaten  in  the  world  of  sport,  that  a  French- 
man has  beaten  us  at  golf,  and  that  Belgians  have 
beaten  us  at  rowing.  I  suppose  that  the  incidents 
are  important  to  any  people  who  ever  believed  in 
the  self-satisfied  English  legend  on  this  subject.  I 
suppose  that  there  are  men  who  vaguely  believe 
that  we  could  never  be  beaten  by  a  Frenchman, 
despite  the  fact  that  we  have  often  been  beaten  by 
Frenchmen,  and  once  by  a  Frenchwoman.  In  the 
old  pictures  in  Fmich  you  will  find  a  recurring 
piece  of  satire.  The  English  caricaturists  always 
assumed  that  a  Frenchman  could  not  ride  to 
hounds  or  enjoy  English  hunting.  It  did  not 
seem  to  occur  to  them  that  all  the  people  who 
founded  English  hunting  were  Frenchmen.  All  the 
Kings  and  nobles  who  originally  rode  to  hounds 
spoke  French.  Large  numbers  of  those  Englishmen 
57 


All  Tilings  Considered 

who  still  ride  to  hounds  have  French  names.  I 
suppose  that  the  thing  is  important  to  any  one 
who  is  ignorant  of  such  evident  matters  as  these. 
I  suppose  that  if  a  man  has  ever  behcved  that  we 
ICngli^h  have  some  sacred  and  separate  right  to  be 
athletic,  such  reverses  do  appear  quite  enormous 
and  shocking.  They  feel  as  if,  while  the  proper 
sun  was  rising  in  the  east,  some  other  and  un- 
expected sun  had  begun  to  rise  in  the  north-north- 
west by  north.  For  tlie  benefit,  the  moral  and 
intellectual  benefit  of  such  people,  it  may  be  worth 
while  to  point  out  that  the  Anglo-Saxon  has  in 
these  cajcs  been  defeated  precisely  by  those  com- 
petitors whom  he  has  always  regarded  as  being 
out  of  the  running;  by  Latins,  and  by  Latins  of 
the  most  easy  and  unstrenuous  type ;  not  only  by 
Frenchmen,  but  by  Belgians.  All  this,  I  say,  is 
worth  telling  to  any  intelligent  person  who  believes 
in  the  haughty  theory  of  Anglo-Saxon  superiority. 
But,  then,  no  intelligent  person  does  believe  in  the 
haughty  theory  of  Anglo-Saxon  superiority.  No 
quite  genuine  Englishman  ever  did  believe  in  it. 
And  the  genuine  Englishman  these  defeats  will  in 
no  respect  dismay. 

The  genuine  English  patriot  will  know  that  the 

strength  of  England  has  never  depended  upon  any 

of  these   things;   that  the  glory  of  England  has 

never  had  anything  to  do  with  them,  except  in  the 

58 


Patriotism  and  Sport 

opinion  of  a  large  section  of  the  rich  and  a  loose 
section  of  the  poor  which  copies  the  idleness  of 
the  rich.  These  people  will,  of  course,  think  too 
much  of  our  failure,  just  as  they  thought  too  much 
of  our  success.  The  typical  Jingoes  who  have 
admired  their  countrymen  too  much  for  being 
conquerors  will,  doubtless,  despise  their  country- 
men too  much  for  being  conquered.  But  the 
Englishman  with  any  feeling  for  England  will 
know  that  athletic  failures  do  not  prove  that 
England  is  weak,  any  more  than  athletic  successes 
proved  that  England  was  strong.  The  truth  is 
that  athletics,  like  all  other  tilings,  especially 
modern,  are  insanely  individualistic.  The  English- 
men who  win  sporting  prizes  are  exceptional 
among  Englishmen,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
they  are  exceptional  even  among  men.  English 
athletes  represent  England  just  about  as  much 
as  Mr.  Earnura's  freaks  represent  America.  There 
are  so  few  of  such  people  in  the  whole  world  that 
it  is  almost  a  toss-up  whether  they  are  found  in 
this  or  that  country. 

If  any  one  wants  a  simple  proof  of  this,  it  is 
easy  to  find.  When  the  great  English  athletes  are 
not  exceptional  Englishmen  they  are  generally  not 
Englishmen  at  all.  Nay,  they  are  often  representa- 
tive of  races  of  which  the  average  tone  is  specially 
incompaiible  with  athletics.  For  instance,  the 
59 


All  Things  Considered 

English  are  supposed  to  rule  the  natives  of  India  in 
virtue  of  their  superior  hardiness,  superior  activity, 
superior  health  of  body  and  mind.  The  Hindus  are 
supposed  to  be  our  subjects  because  they  arc  less 
fond  of  action,  less  fond  of  openness  and  the  open 
air.  In  a  word,  less  fond  of  cricket.  And,  sub- 
stantially, this  is  probably  true,  tliat  tlie  Indians  arc 
less  fond  of  cricket.  All  the  same,  if  you  ask  among 
Englishmen  for  the  very  best  cricket-player,  you 
will  find  that  he  is  an  Indian.  Or,  to  take  another 
case:  it  is,  broadly  speaking,  true  that  the  Jews 
are,  as  a  race,  pacific,  intellectual,  indifferent  to 
war,  like  the  Indians,  or,  perhaps,  contemptuous 
of  war,  like  the  Chinese  :  nevertheless,  of  the  very 
good  prize-fighters,  one  or  two  have  been  Jews. 

This  is  one  of  the  strongest  instances  of  the 
particular  kind  of  evil  that  arises  from  our  English 
form  of  the  worship  of  athletics.  It  concentrates 
too  much  upon  the  success  of  individuals.  It 
began,  quite  naturally  and  rightly,  with  wanting 
England  to  win.  The  second  stage  was  that  it 
wanted  some  Englishmen  to  win.  The  third  stage 
was  (in  the  ecstasy  and  agony  of  some  special  com- 
petition) that  it  wanted  one  particular  Englishman 
to  win.  And  the  fourth  stage  was  that  when  he 
had  won,  it  discovered  that  he  was  not  even  an 
Englishman. 

This  is  one  of  the  points,  I  think,  on  which 
60 


Patriotism  and  Sport 

something  might  really  be  said  for  Lord  Roberts 
and  his  rather  vague  ideas  which  vary  between 
rifle  clubs  and  conscription.  Whatever  may  be 
the  advantages  or  disadvantages  otherwise  of  the 
idea,  it  is  at  least  an  idea  of  procuring  equality 
and  a  sort  of  average  in  the  athletic  capacity  of 
the  people ;  it  might  conceivably  act  as  a  correc- 
tive to  our  mere  tendency  to  see  ourselves  in 
certain  exceptional  athletes.  As  it  is,  there  are 
millions  of  Englishmen  who  really  think  that  they 
are  a  muscular  race  because  C.  B.  Fry  is  an 
Englishman.  And  there  are  many  of  them  who 
think  vaguely  that  athletics  must  belong  to  England 
because  Ranjitsinhji  is  an  Indian. 

But  the  real  historic  strength  of  England, 
physical  and  moral,  has  never  had  anything  to  do 
with  this  athletic  specialism ;  it  has  been  rather 
hindered  by  it.  Somebody  said  that  the  Battle 
of  Waterloo  was  won  on  Eton  playing-fields.  It 
was  a  particularly  unfortunate  remark,  for  the 
English  contribution  to  the  victory  of  Waterloo 
depended  very  much  more  than  is  common  in 
victories  upon  the  steadiness  of  the  rank  and  file 
in  an  almost  desperate  situation.  The  Battle  of 
Waterloo  was  won  by  the  stubbornness  of  the 
common  soldier — that  is  to  say,  it  was  won  by 
the  man  who  had  never  been  to  Eton,  It  was 
absurd  to  say  that  Waterloo  was  won  on  Eton 
6i 


All  Things  Considered 

cricket-fields.  But  it  miglit  have  been  fairly  said 
that  Waterloo  was  won  on  the  village  green,  where 
clumsy  boys  played  a  very  clumsy  cricket.  In  a 
word,  it  was  the  average  of  the  nation  that  was 
strong,  and  athletic  glories  do  not  indicate  much 
about  the  average  of  a  nation.  Waterloo  was  not 
won  by  good  cricket-players.  But  Waterloo  was 
won  by  bad  cricket-players,  by  a  mass  of  men  who 
had  some  minimum  of  athletic  instincts  and  habits. 
It  is  a  good  sign  in  a  nation  when  such  things  are 
done  badly.  It  shows  that  all  the  people  are  doing 
them.  And  it  is  a  bad  sign  in  a  nation  when  such 
things  are  done  very  well,  for  it  shows  that  only  a 
few  experts  and  eccentrics  are  doing  them,  and 
that  the  nation  is  merely  looking  on.  Suppose 
that  whenever  we  heard  of  walking  in  England  it 
always  meant  walking  forty-five  miles  a  day  with- 
out fatigue.  We  should  be  perfectly  certain  that 
only  a  few  men  were  walking  at  all,  and  that  all 
the  other  British  subjects  were  being  wheeled 
about  in  Bath-chairs.  But  if  when  we  hear  of 
walking  it  means  slow  walking,  painfiil  walking, 
and  frct|uent  fatigue,  then  we  know  that  the  mass 
of  the  nation  still  is  walking.  We  know  that 
England  is  still  literally  on  its  feet. 

The  difficulty  is  therefore  that  the  actual  raising 
of  the   standard  of  athletics  has    probably  been 
bad    for    national    atliletirism.       In-tead    of    the 
6? 


Patriotism   and   Sport 

tournament  being  a  healthy  melee  into  which  any 
ordniary  man  would  rush  and  take  his  chance, 
it  has  become  a  fenced  and  guarded  til  ting-yard 
for  the  collision  of  particular  champions  against 
whom  no  ordinary  man  would  pit  himself  or  even  be 
permitted  to  pit  himself.  If  Waterloo  was  won  on 
Eton  cricket-fields  it  was  because  Eton  cricket  was 
probably  much  more  careless  then  than  it  is  now. 
As  long  as  the  game  was  a  game,  everybody 
wanted  to  join  in  it.  When  it  becomes  an  art, 
every  one  wants  to  look  at  it.  When  it  was  frivo- 
lous it  may  have  won  Waterloo :  when  it  was 
serious  and  efficient  it  lost  Magersfontein. 

In  the  Waterloo  period  there  was  a  general 
rough-and-tumble  athleticism  among  average 
Englishmen.  It  cannot  be  re-created  by  cricket, 
or  by  conscription,  or  by  any  artificial  means.  It 
was  a  thing  of  the  soul.  It  came  out  of  laughter, 
religion,  and  the  spirit  of  the  place.  But  it  was 
like  the  modern  French  duel  in  this — that  it  might 
happen  to  anybody.  If  I  were  a  French  journalist 
it  might  really  happen  that  Monsieur  Clemenceau 
might  challenge  me  to  meet  him  with  pistols.  But 
I  do  not  think  that  it  is  at  all  likely  that  Mr. 
C.  B.  Fry  will  ever  challenge  me  to  meet  him 
with  cricket-bats. 


63 


An  Essay  on  Two  Cities         O        ® 

A  LITTLE  while  ago  I  fell  out  of  England 
into  the  town  of  Paris.  If  a  man  fell  oul 
of  ihe  moon  into  the  town  of  Paris  he  would  know 
that  it  was  the  capital  of  a  great  nation.  If, 
however,  he  fell  (perhaps  off  some  other  side  of 
the  moon)  so  as  to  hit  the  city  of  London,  he 
would  not  know  so  well  that  it  was  the  capital 
of  a  great  nation ;  at  any  rate,  he  would  not 
know  that  the  nation  was  so  great  as  it  is. 
This  would  be  so  even  on  the  assumption  that 
the  man  from  the  moon  could  not  read  our  alpha- 
bet, as  presumably  he  could  not,  unless  elementary 
education  in  that  planet  has  gone  to  rather  unsus- 
pected lengths.  But  it  is  true  that  a  great  part  of 
the  distinctive  quality  which  separates  Paris  from 
London  may  be  even  seen  in  the  names.  Real 
democrats  always  insist  that  England  is  an  aristo- 
cratic country.  Real  aristocrats  always  insist  (for 
some  mysterious  reason)  that  it  is  a  democratic 
country.     But  if  any  one  has  any  real  doubt  about 

K  65 


All  Things  Considered 

the  matter  let  liim  consider  simply  the  names  of 
the  streets.  Nearly  all  the  streets  out  of  the 
Strand,  for  instance,  are  named  after  the  first 
name,  second  name,  third  name,  fourth,  fifth, 
and  sixth  names  of  some  particular  noble  family ; 
after  their  relations,  connections,  or  places  of  resi- 
dence— Arundel  Street,  Norfolk  Street,  Villiers 
Street,  Bedford  Street,  Southampton  Street,  and 
any  number  of  others.  The  names  are  varied,  so 
as  to  introduce  the  same  family  under  all  sorts  of 
different  surnames.  Thus  we  have  Arundel  Street 
and  also  Norfolk  Street ;  thus  we  have  Buckingham 
Street  and  also  Villiers  Street.  To  say  that  this  is 
not  aristocracy  is  simply  intellectual  impudence. 
I  am  an  ordinary  citizen,  and  my  name  is  Gilbert 
Keith  Chesterton  ;  and  I  confess  that  if  I  found 
three  streets  in  a  row  in  the  Strand,  the  first  called 
Gilbert  Street,  the  second  Keith  Street,  and  the 
third  Chesterton  Street,  I  should  consider  that  I 
had  become  a  somewhat  more  important  person  in 
the  commonwealth  than  was  altogether  good  for 
its  health.  If  Frenchmen  ran  London  (which  God 
forbid  ! ),  they  would  think  it  quite  as  ludicrous 
that  those  streets  should  be  named  after  the  Duke 
of  Buckingham  as  that  they  should  be  named  after 
me.  They  are  streets  out  of  one  of  the  main 
thoroughfares  of  London.  If  French  methoils 
were  adopted,  one  of  thenr  Mould  be  called 
66 


An  Essay  on  Two  Cities 

Shakspere  Street,  another  Cromwell  Street,  another 
Wordsworth  Street ;  there  would  be  statues  of  each 
of  ihese  persons  at  the  end  of  each  of  these  streets, 
and  any  streets  left  over  would  be  named  after  the 
date  on  which  the  Reform  Bill  was  passed  or  the 
Penny  Postage  established. 

Suppose  a  man  tried  to  find  people  in  London 
by  the  names  of  the  places.  It  would  make  a 
fine  farce,  illustrating  our  illogicality.  Our  hero, 
having  once  realised  that  Buckingham  Street  was 
named  after  the  Buckingham  family,  would  natu- 
rally walk  into  Buckingham  Palace  in  search  of 
the  Duke  of  Buckingham.  To  his  astonishment 
he  would  meet  somebody  quite  different.  His 
simple  lunar  logic  would  lead  him  to  suppose  that 
if  he  wanted  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  (which 
seems  unlikely)  he  would  find  him  at  Marlborough 
House.  He  would  find  the  Prince  of  Wales. 
When  at  last  he  understood  that  the  Marlboroughs 
live  at  Blenheim,  named  after  the  great  Marl- 
borough's victory,  he  would,  no  doubt,  go  there. 
But  he  would  again  find  himself  in  error  if,  acting 
upon  this  principle,  he  tried  to  find  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  and  told  the  cabman  to  drive  to 
Waterloo.  I  wonder  that  no  one  has  written  a 
wild  romance  about  the  adventures  of  such  an 
alien,  seeking  the  great  English  aristocrats,  and 
only  guided  by  the  names ;  looking  for  the  Duke 
67 


All  Things  Considered 

of  Bedford  in  the  town  of  that  name,  seeking  for 
some  trace  of  the  Duke  of  Norfolk  in  Norfolk. 
He  might  sail  for  Wellington  in  New  Zealand  to 
find  the  ancient  seat  of  the  Wellingtons.  The 
last  scene  might  show  him  trying  to  learn  Welsh 
in  order  to  converse  with  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

But  even  if  the  imaginary  traveller  knew  no 
alphabet  of  this  earth  at  all,  I  think  it  would  still 
be  possible  to  suppose  him  seeing  a  difference 
between  London  and  Paris,  and,  upon  the  whole, 
the  real  difference.  He  would  not  be  able  to 
read  the  words  "  Quai  Voliaire  " ;  but  he  would 
see  the  sneering  statue  and  the  hard,  straight 
roads ;  without  having  heard  of  Voltaire  he  would 
understand  that  the  city  was  Voltairean.  He 
would  not  know  that  Fleet  Street  was  named 
after  the  Fleet  Prison.  But  the  same  national 
spirit  which  kept  the  Fleet  Prison  closed  and 
narrow  still  keeps  Fleet  Street  closed  and  narrow. 
Or,  if  you  will,  you  may  call  Fleet  Street  cosy,  and 
the  Fleet  Prison  cosy.  I  think  I  could  be  more 
comfortable  in  the  Fleet  Prison,  in  an  English 
way  of  comfort,  than  just  under  the  statue  of 
Voltaire.  I  think  that  the  man  from  the  moon 
would  know  France  without  knowing  French ;  I 
think  that  he  would  know  England  without  having 
heard  the  word.  For  in  the  last  resort  all  men 
talk  by  signs.  To  talk  by  statues  is  to  talk  by 
68 


An  Essay  on  Two  Cities 

signs  ;  to  talk  by  cities  is  to  talk  by  signs.  Pillars, 
palaces,  cathedrals,  temples,  pyramids,  are  an 
enormous  dumb  alphabet :  as  if  some  giant  held 
up  his  fingers  of  stone.  The  most  important 
things  at  the  last  are  always  said  by  signs,  even 
if,  like  the  Cross  on  St.  Paul's,  they  are  signs  in 
heaven.  If  men  do  not  understand  signs,  they 
will  never  understand  words. 

For  my  part,  I  should  be  inclined  to  suggest 
that  the  chief  object  of  education  should  be  to 
restore  simplicity.  If  you  like  to  put  it  so,  the 
chief  object  of  education  is  not  to  learn  things  ; 
nay,  the  chief  object  of  education  is  to  unlearn 
things.  The  chief  object  of  education  is  to  un- 
learn all  the  weariness  and  wickedness  of  the 
world  and  to  get  back  into  that  state  of  exhilar- 
ation we  all  instinctively  celebrate  when  we  write 
by  preference  of  children  and  of  boys.  If  I  were 
an  examiner  appointed  to  examine  all  examiners 
(which  does  not  at  present  appear  probable),  I 
would  not  only  ask  the  teachers  how  much  know- 
ledge they  had  imparted  ;  I  would  ask  them  how 
much  splendid  and  scornful  ignorance  they  had 
erected,  like  some  royal  tower  in  arms.  But,  in 
any  case,  I  would  insist  that  people  should  have  so 
much  simplicity  as  would  enable  them  to  see 
things  suddenly  and  to  see  things  as  they  are. 
I  do  not  care  so  much  whether  they  can  read 
69 


All   Things  Considered 

the  names  over  the  sliops.  I  do  care  very 
much  whether  they  can  read  the  shops.  I  do  not 
feel  deeply  troubled  as  to  whether  tliey  can  tell 
where  London  is  on  the  map  so  long  as  they  can 
tell  where  Brixton  is  on  the  way  home.  I  do  net 
even  mind  whether  they  can  put  two  and  two 
together  in  the  mathematical  sense;  I  am  content 
if  they  can  put  two  and  two  together  in  the 
metaphorical  sense.  But  all  this  longer  statement 
of  an  obvious  view  comes  back  to  the  metaphor 
I  have  employed.  I  do  not  care  a  dump  whether 
they  know  the  alphabet,  so  long  as  they  know  the 
dumb  alphabet. 

Unfortunately,  I  have  noticed  in  many  aspects 
of  our  popular  education  that  this  is  not  done  at 
all.  One  teaches  our  London  children  to  see 
London  with  abrupt  and  simple  eyes.  And 
London  is  far  more  difficult  to  see  properly  than 
any  other  place.  London  is  a  riddle.  Paris  is 
an  explanation.  The  education  of  the  Parisian 
child  is  something  corresponding  to  the  clear 
avenues  and  the  exact  squares  of  Paris.  When 
the  Parisian  boy  has  done  learning  about  the 
l-"rench  reason  and  the  Roman  order  he  can  go 
out  and  see  the  thing  repeated  in  the  shapes  of 
many  shining  public  places,  in  the  angles  of 
many  streets.  But  when  the  English  boy  goes 
out,  after  learning  about  a  vague  progress  and 
70 


All  Essay  on  Two  Cities 

idealism,  he  cannot  see  it  anyvvlicre.  He  cannot 
see  anything  anywhere,  except  Sapolio  and  the 
Daily  Mail.  We  must  either  alter  London  to 
suit  the  ideals  of  our  education,  or  else  alter  our 
education  to  suit  the  great  beauty  of  London. 


French  and  English         O        O        © 

T  T  is  obvious  that  tliere  is  a  great  deal  of 
difference  between  being  international  and 
being  cosmopolitan.  All  good  men  are  interna- 
tional. Nearly  all  bad  men  are  cosmopolitan.  If 
we  are  to  be  international  we  must  be  national. 
And  it  is  largely  because  those  who  call  them- 
selves the  friends  of  peace  have  not  dwelt 
sufficiently  on  this  distinction  that  they  do  not 
impress  the  bulk  of  any  of  the  nations  to  which 
Ihey  belong.  International  peace  means  a  peace 
between  nations,  not  a  peace  after  the  destruction 
of  nations,  like  the  Buddhist  peace  after  the 
destruction  of  personality.  The  golden  age  of 
the  good  European  is  like  the  heaven  of  the 
Christian :  it  is  a  place  where  people  will  love 
each  other;  not  like  the  heaven  of  the  Hindu,  a 
place  where  they  will  be  each  other.  And  in  the 
case  of  national  character  this  can  be  seen  in  a 
curious  way.  It  will  generally  be  found,  I  think, 
that  the  more  a  man  really  appreciates  and  admires 
73 


All  Things  Considered 

the  soul  of  another  people  the  less  he  will  attempt 
to  imitate  it  j  he  will  be  conscious  that  there  is 
something  in  it  too  deep  and  too  unmanageable 
to  imitate.  The  Englishman  who  has  a  fancy  for 
France  will  try  to  be  French  ;  the  Englishman  who 
admires  France  will  remain  obstinately  English, 
This  is  to  be  particularly  noticed  in  the  case  of 
our  relations  with  the  French,  because  it  is  one 
of  the  outstanding  peculiarities  of  the  French 
that  their  vices  are  all  on  the  surface,  and 
their  extraordinary  virtues  concealed.  One  might 
almost  say  that  their  vices  are  the  flower  of  their 
virtues. 

Thus  their  obscenity  is  the  expression  of  their 
passionate  love  of  dragging  all  things  into  the  light. 
The  avarice  of  their  peasants  means  the  indepen- 
dence of  their  peasants.  What  the  English  call 
their  rudeness  in  the  streets  is  a  phase  of  their 
social  equality.  The  worried  look  of  their  women 
is  connected  with  the  responsibility  of  their  women ; 
and  a  certain  unconscious  brutality  of  hurry  and 
gesture  in  the  men  is  related  to  their  inexhaustible 
and  extraordinary  military  courage.  Of  all  countries, 
therefore,  France  is  the  worst  country  for  a  super- 
ficial fool  to  admire.  Let  a  fool  hate  France :  if 
the  fool  loves  it  he  will  soon  be  a  knave.  He  will 
certainly  admire  it,  not  only  for  the  things  that 
are  not  creditable,  but  actually  for  the  things  that 
74 


French  and  English 

are  not  there.  He  will  admire  the  grace  and  indo- 
lence of  the  most  industrious  people  in  the  world. 
He  will  admire  the  romance  and  fantasy  of  the 
most  determinedly  respectable  and  commonplace 
people  in  the  world.  This  mistake  the  Englishman 
will  make  if  he  admires  France  too  hastily  j  but 
the  mistake  that  he  makes  about  France  will  be 
slight  compared  with  the  mistake  that  he  makes 
about  himself.  An  Englishman  who  professes 
really  to  like  French  realistic  novels,  really  to  be 
at  home  in  a  French  modern  theatre,  really  to 
experience  no  shock  on  first  seeing  the  savage 
French  caricatures,  is  making  a  mistake  very 
dangerous  for  his  own  sincerit}'.  He  is  admiring  ^ 
something  he  does  not  understand.  He  is  reaping 
where  he  has  not  sown,  and  taking  up  where  he 
has  not  laid  down  ;  he  is  trying  to  taste  the  fruit 
when  he  has  never  toiled  over  the  tree.  He 
is  trying  to  pluck  the  exquisite  fruit  of  French^^ 
cynicism,  when  he  has  never  tilled  the  rude  but 
rich  soil  of  French  virtue. 

The  thing  can  only  be  made  clear  to  English- 
men by  turning  it  round.  Suppose  a  Frenchman 
came  out  of  democratic  France  to  live  in  England, 
where  the  shadow  of  the  great  houses  still  falls 
everywhere  and  where  even  freedom  was,  in  its 
origin,  aristocratic.  If  the  Frenchman  saw  our 
aristocracy  and  liked  it,  if  he  saw  our  snobbishness 
75 


All  Things  Considered 

and  liked  it,  if  he  set  himself  to  imitate  it,  we  all 
know  what  we  should  feel.  We  all  know  that  we 
should  feel  that  that  particular  Frenchman  was 
a  repulsive  little  gnat.  He  would  be  imitating 
English  aristocracy ;  he  would  be  imitating  the 
English  vice.  But  he  would  not  even  understand 
the  vice  he  plagiarised :  especially  he  would  not 
understand  that  the  vice  is  partly  a  virtue.  He 
would  not  understand  those  elements  in  the 
English  which  balance  snobbishness  and  make  it 
human  :  the  great  kindness  of  the  English,  their 
hospitality,  their  unconscious  poetry,  their  senti- 
mental conservatism,  which  really  admires  the 
gentry.  The  French  Royalist  sees  that  the  English 
like  their  King.  But  he  does  not  grasp  that  while 
it  is  base  to  worship  a  King,  it  is  almost  noble 
to  worship  a  powerless  King.  The  impotence  of 
the  Hanoverian  Sovereigns  has  raised  the  English 
loyal  subject  almost  to  the  chivalry  and  dignity 
of  a  Jacobite.  The  Frenchman  sees  that  the 
English  servant  is  respectful :  he  does  not  realise 
that  he  is  also  disrespectful ;  that  there  is  an  Eng- 
lish legend  of  the  humorous  and  faithful  servant, 
who  is  as  much  a  personality  as  his  master;  the 
Caleb  Balderstone,  the  Sam  Weller.  He  sees  that 
the  English  do  admire  a  nobleman  ;  he  does  not 
allow  for  the  fact  that  they  admire  a  nobleman 
most  when  he  does  not  behave  like  one.  Tiiey 
76 


French  and  English 

like  a  noble  to  be  unconscious  and  amiable  :  the 
slave  may  be  humble,  but  the  master  must  not 
be  proud.  The  master  is  Life,  as  they  would  like 
to  enjoy  it;  and  among  the  joys  they  desire  in 
him  there  is  none  which  they  desire  more  sincerely 
than  that  of  generosity,  of  throwing  money  about 
among  mankind,  or,  to  use  the  noble  mediteval 
word,  largesse — the  joy  of  largeness.  That  is  why 
a  cabman  tells  you  you  are  no  gentleman  if  you 
give  him  his  correct  fare.  Not  only  his  pocket, 
but  his  soul,  is  hurt.  You  have  wounded  his 
ideal.  You  have  defaced  his  vision  of  the  perfect 
aristocrat.  All  this  is  really  very  subtle  and  elu- 
sive ;  it  is  very  difficult  to  separate  what  is  mere 
slavishness  from  what  is  a  sort  of  vicarious  nobility 
in  the  English  love  of  a  lord.  And  no  Frenchman 
could  easily  grasp  it  at  all.  He  would  think  it 
was  mere  slavishness ;  and  if  he  liked  it,  he  would 
be  a  slave.  So  every  Englishman  must  (at  first) 
feel  French  candour  to  be  mere  brutality.  And 
if  he  likes  it,  he  is  a  brute.  These  national  merits 
must  not  be  understood  so  easily.  It  requires  long 
years  of  plenitude  and  quiet,  the  slow  growth  of 
great  parks,  the  seasoning  of  oaken  beams,  the 
dark  enrichment  of  red  wine  in  cellars  and  in  inns, 
all  the  leisure  and  the  life  of  England  through 
many  centuries,  to  produce  at  last  the  generous 
and  genial  fruit  of  English  snobbishness.  And 
77 


All  Things  Considered 

it  requires  battery  and  barricade,  songs  in  tlic 
streets,  and  ragged  men  dead  for  an  idea,  to  pro- 
duce and  justify  the  terrible  flower  of  French 
indecency. 

When  I  was  in  Paris  a  sliort  time  ago,  I  went 
with  an  English  friend  of  mine  to  an  extremely 
brilliant  and  rapid  succession  of  French  plays, 
each  occupying  about  twenty  minutes.  They  were 
all  astonishingly  cffeciivc ;  but  there  was  one  of 
them  which  was  so  effective  that  my  friend  and 
I  fought  about  it  outside,  and  had  almost  to  be 
separated  by  the  police.  It  was  intended  to  indi- 
cate ho.v  men  really  behaved  in  a  wreck  or  naval 
disaster,  how  they  break  down,  how  they  scream, 
how  they  fight  each  other  without  object  and  in 
a  mere  hatred  of  everything.  And  then  there  was 
added,  with  all  that  horrible  irony  which  Voltaire 
began,  a  scene  in  which  a  great  statesman  made 
a  speech  over  their  bodies,  saying  that  they  were 
all  heroes  and  had  died  in  a  fraternal  embrace. 
My  friend  and  I  came  out  of  this  theatre,  and  as 
he  had  lived  long  in  Paris,  he  said,  like  a  French- 
man :  "  What  admirable  artistic  arrangement !  Is 
it  not  exquisite?"  "  No,"  I  replied,  assuming  as 
far  as  possible  the  traditional  attitude  of  John  Bull 
in  the  pictures  in  Punch — "  No,  it  is  not  exquisite. 
Perhaps  it  is  unmeaning ;  if  it  is  unmeaning  I  do 
not  mind.     But  if  it  has  a  meaning  I  know  what 


French  and  English 

the  meaning  is;  it  is  that  under  all  their  pageant 
of  chivalry  men  are  not  only  beasts,  but  even 
hunted  beasts.  I  do  not  know  much  of  humanity, 
especially  when  humanity  talks  in  French.  But 
I  know  when  a  thing  is  meant  to  uplift  the  human 
soul,  and  when  it  is  meant  to  depress  it.  I  know 
that '  Cyrano  de  Bergerac '  (where  the  actors  talked 
even  quicker)  was  meant  to  encourage  man.  And 
I  know  that  this  was  meant  to  discourage  him." 
"  These  sentimental  and  moral  views  of  art,"  began 
my  friend,  but  I  broke  into  his  words  as  a  light 
broke  into  my  mind.  "  Let  me  say  to  you,"  I  said, 
"what  Jaures  said  to  Liebknecht  at  the  Socialist 
Conference  :  '  You  have  not  died  on  the  barricades. 
You  are  an  Englishman,  as  I  am,  and  you  ought 
to  be  as  amiable  as  I  am.  These  people  have 
some  right  to  be  terrible  in  art,  for  they  have 
been  terrible  in  politics.  They  may  endure  mock 
tortures  on  the  stage ;  they  have  seen  real  tortures 
in  the  streets.  They  have  been  hurt  for  the  idea 
of  Dem.ocracy.  They  have  been  hurt  for  the  idea 
of  Catholicism.  It  is  not  so  utterly  unnatural  to 
them  that  thty  should  be  hurt  for  the  idea  of 
literature.  But,  by  blazes,  it  is  altogether  unnatural 
to  me !  And  the  worst  thing  of  all  is  that  I,  who 
am  an  Englishman,  loving  conifort,  should  find 
comfort  in  such  things  as  this.  The  French  do 
not  seek  comfort  here,  but   rather   unrest.      This 


All  Things  Considered 

restless  people  seeks  to  keep  itscif  in  a  perpetual 
agony  of  the  revolutionary  mood.  Frenchmen, 
seeking  revolution,  may  find  the  humiliation  of 
humanity  inspirinof.  But  God  forbid  that  two 
pleasure-seek'ng  EnglisKmca  should  ever  find  it 
I  Icas.uu!" 


80 


The  Zola  Controversy        ©        ©        @ 

T^HE  difference  between  two  great  nations  can 
be  illustrated  by  the  coincidence  that  at  this 
moment  both  France  and  England  are  engaged  in 
discussing  the  memorial  of  a  literary  man.  France 
is  considering  the  celebration  of  the  late  Zola, 
England  is  considering  that  of  the  recently  deceased 
Shakspere.  There  is  some  national  significance, 
it  may  be,  in  the  time  that  has  elapsed.  Some 
will  find  impatience  and  indelicacy  in  this  early 
attack  on  Zola  or  deification  of  him ;  but  the 
nation  which  has  sat  still  for  three  hundred  years 
after  Shakspere's  funeral  may  be  considered,  per- 
haps, to  have  carried  delicacy  too  far.  But  much 
deeper  things  are  involved  than  the  mere  matter 
of  time.  The  point  of  the  contrast  is  that  the 
French  are  discussing  whether  there  shall  be  any 
monument,  while  the  English  are  discussing  only 
what  the  monument  shall  be.  In  other  words,  the 
French  are  discussing  a  living  question,  while  we 
are  discussing  a  dead  one.  Or  rather,  not  a  dead 
G  8i 


All  Things  Considered 

one,  but  a  settled  one,  which  is  quite  a  different 
thing.  When  a  thing  of  the  intellect  is  settled  it 
is  not  dead  :  rather  it  is  immortal.  The  multipli- 
cation table  is  immortal,  and  so  is  the  fame  of 
Shakspere.  But  the  fame  of  Zola  is  not  dead  or 
not  immortal ;  it  is  at  its  crisis,  it  is  in  the  balance-, 
and  may  be  found  wanting.  The  French,  there- 
fore, are  quite  right  in  considering  it  a  living 
question.  It  is  still  living  as  a  question,  becaus-e 
it  is  not  yet  solved.  But  Shakspere  is  not  a  living 
question  :  he  is  a  living  answer. 

For  my  part,  therefore,  I  think  the  French  Zola 
controversy  much  more  practical  and  exciting  than 
the  English  Shakspere  one.  The  admission  of 
Zola  to  the  Pantheon  may  be  regarded  as  defining 
Zola's  position.  But  nobody  could  say  that  a 
statue  of  Shakspere,  even  fifty  feet  high,  on  the  top 
of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  could  define  Shakspere's 
position.  It  only  defines  our  position  towards 
Shakspere.  It  is  he  who  is  fixed  ;  it  is  we  who 
are  unstable.  The  nearest  approach  to  an  English 
parallel  to  the  Zola  case  would  be  furnished  if  it 
were  proposed  to  put  some  savagely  controversial 
and  largely  repulsive  author  among  the  ashes  of 
the  greatest  English  poets.  Suppose,  for  instance, 
it  were  proposed  to  bury  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling  in 
Westminster  Abbey.  I  should  be  against  burying 
him  in  Westminster  Abbey  :  first,  because  he  is 
Sz 


The  Zola  Controversy 

still  alive  (and  here  I  think  even  he  himself  might 
admit  the  justice  of  my  protest);  and  second, 
berause  I  should  like  to  reserve  that  rapidly 
narrowing  space  for  the  great  permanent  examples, 
not  for  the  interesting  foreign  interruptions,  of 
English  literature.  I  would  not  have  either  Mr, 
Kipling  or  Mr.  George  Moore  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  though  Mr.  Kipling  has  certainly  caught 
even  more  cleverly  than  Mr.  Mcore  the  lucid  and 
cool  cruelty  of  the  French  short  story.  I  am  very 
sure  that  Geoffrey  Chaucer  and  Joseph  Addison 
get  on  very  well  together  in  the  Poets'  Corner, 
despite  the  centuries  that  sunder  them.  But  I  feel 
that  Mr.  George  Moore  would  be  much  happier  in 
Pere-la-Chaise,  with  a  riotous  statue  by  Rodin  on 
the  top  of  him  ;  and  Mr.  Kipling  much  happier 
under  some  huge  Asiatic  monument,  carved  with 
all  the  cruelties  of  the  gods. 

As  to  the  affair  of  the  English  monument  to 
Shakspere,  every  people  has  its  own  mode  of 
commemoration,  and  I  think  there  is  a  great  deal 
to  be  said  for  ours.  There  is  the  French  monu- 
mental st}le,  which  consists  in  erecting  very 
pompous  statues,  very  well  done.  There  is  the 
German  monumental  style,  which  consists  in 
erecting  very  pompous  statues,  badly  done.  And 
there  is  the  English  monumental  method,  the 
great  English  way  with  statues,  which  consists  in 
83 


All  Thiiifjs  Considered 


not  erecting  them  at  all.  A  statue  may  be  digni- 
fied ;  but  the  absence  of  a  statue  is  always 
dignified.  For  my  part,  I  feel  there  is  something 
national,  something  wholesomely  symbolic,  in  the 
fact  tliat  there  is  no  statue  of  Shakspere.  There 
is,  of  course,  one  in  Leicester  Square ;  but  the 
very  place  where  it  stands  shows  that  it  was  put  up 
by  a  foreigner  for  foreigners.  There  is  surely 
something  modest  and  manly  about  not  attempting 
to  express  our  greatest  poet  in  the  plastic  arts  in 
which  we  do  not  excel.  We  honour  Shakspere  as 
the  Jews  honour  God — by  not  daring  to  make  of 
him  a  graven  image.  Our  sculpture,  our  statues, 
are  good  enough  for  bankers  and  philanthropists, 
who  are  our  curse  :  not  good  enough  for  him,  who 
is  our  benediction.  Why  should  we  celebrate  the 
very  art  in  which  we  triumph  by  the  very  art  in 
which  we  fail? 

England  is  most  easily  understood  as  the  country 
of  amateurs.  It  is  especially  the  country  of  ama- 
teur soldiers  (that  is,  of  Volunteers),  of  amateur 
statesmen  (that  is,  of  aristocrats),  and  it  is  not 
unreasonable  or  out  of  keeping  that  it  should  be 
rather  specially  the  country  of  a  careless  and 
lounging  view  of  literature.  Shakspere  has  no 
academic  monument  for  the  same  reason  that 
he  had  no  academic  education.  He  had  small 
Latin  and  less  Greek,  and  (in  the  same  spirit) 
S4 


The  Zola  Controversy 

he  has  never  been  commemorated  in  Latin 
epitaphs  or  Greek  marble.  If  there  is  nothing 
clear  and  fixed  about  the  emblems  of  his  fame, 
it  is  because  there  was  nothing  clear  and  fixed 
about  the  origins  of  it.  Those  great  schools  and 
Universities  which  watch  a  man  in  his  youth 
may  record  him  in  his  death  ;  but  Shakspere  had 
no  such  unifying  traditions.  We  can  only  say  of 
him  what  we  can  say  of  Dickens.  We  can  only 
say  that  he  came  from  nowhere  and  that  he  went 
everywhere.  For  him  a  monument  in  any  place  is 
out  of  place.  A  cold  statue  in  a  certain  square  is 
unsuitable  to  him  as  it  would  be  unsuitable  to 
Dickens.  If  we  put  up  a  statue  of  Dickens  in 
Portland  Place  to-morrow  we  should  feel  the 
stiffness  as  unnatural.  We  should  fear  that  the 
statue  might  stroll  about  the  street  at  night. 

But  in  France  the  question  of  whether  Zola  shall 
go  to  the  Panthe'on  when  he  is  dead  is  quite  as 
practicable  as  the  question  whether  he  should  go 
to  prison  when  he  was  alive.  It  is  the  problem  of 
whether  the  nation  shall  take  one  turn  of  thought 
or  another.  In  raising  a  monument  to  Zola  they 
do  not  raise  merely  a  trophy,  but  a  finger-post. 
The  question  is  one  which  will  have  to  be  settled 
in  most  European  countries;  but  like  all  such 
questions,  it  has  come  first  to  a  head  in  France ; 
because  France  is  the  battlefield  of  Christendom. 
85 


All  Things  Considered 

That  question  is,  of  course,  roughly  this :  whether 
in  that  ill-defined  area  of  verbal  licence  on  certain 
dangerous  topics  it  is  an  extenuation  of  indelicacy 
or  an  aggravation  of  it  that  the  indelicacy  was 
deliberate  and  solemn.  Is  indecency  more  in- 
decent if  it  is  grave,  or  more  indecent  if  it  is  gay  ? 
For  my  part,  I  belong  to  an  old  school  in  this 
matter.  ^Vhen  a  book  or  a  play  strikes  me  as 
a  crime,  I  am  not  disarmed  by  being  told  that 
it  is  a  serious  crime.  If  a  man  has  written  some- 
thing vile,  I  am  not  comforted  by  the  explanation 
that  he  quite  meant  to  do  it.  I  know  all  the  evils 
of  flippancy  ;  I  do  not  like  the  man  who  laughs  at 
the  sight  of  virtue.  But  I  prefer  him  to  the  man 
who  weeps  at  the  sight  of  virtue  and  complains 
bitterly  of  there  being  any  such  thing.  I  am  not 
reassured,  when  ethics  are  as  wild  as  cannibalism, 
by  the  fact  that  they  are  also  as  grave  and  sincere 
as  suicide.  And  I  think  there  is  an  obvious  fallacy 
in  the  bitter  contrasts  drawn  by  some  moderns 
between  the  aversion  to  Ibsen's  "  Ghosts"  and  the 
popularity  of  some  such  joke  as  "  Dear  Old 
Charlie."  Surely  there  is  nothing  mysterious  or 
unphilosophic  in  the  popular  preference.  The 
joke  of  "  Dear  Old  Charlie  "  is  passed — because  it 
is  a  joke.  "  Ghosts  "  are  exorcised — because  they 
are  ghosts. 

Tins  is,  of  course,  the  whole  question  of  Zola. 
86 


The  Zola  Controversy 

I  am  grown  up,  and  I  do  not  worry  myself  much 
about  Zola's  immorality.  The  thing  I  cannot 
stand  is  his  morality.  If  ever  a  man  on  this  earth 
lived  to  embody  the  tremendous  text,  "  But  if  the 
light  in  your  body  be  darkness,  how  great  is  the 
darkness,"  it  was  certainly  he.  Great  men  like 
Ariosto,  Rabelais,  and  Shakspere  fall  in  foul  places, 
flounder  in  violent  but  venial  sin,  sprawl  for  pages, 
exposing  their  gigantic  weakness,  are  dirty,  are 
indefensible;  and  then  they  struggle  up  again  and 
can  still  speak  with  a  convincing  kindness  and  an 
unbroken  honour  of  the  best  things  in  the  world : 
Rabelais,  of  the  instruction  of  ardent  and  austere 
youth ;  Ariosto,  of  holy  chivalry  ;  Shakspere,  of 
the  splendid  stillness  of  mercy.  But  in  Zola  even 
the  ideals  are  undesirable  ;  Zola's  mercy  is  colder 
than  justice — nay,  Zola's  mercy  is  more  bitter  in 
the  mouth  than  injustice.  When  Zola  shows  us  an 
ideal  training  he  does  not  take  us,  like  Rabelais, 
into  the  happy  fields  of  humanist  learning.  He 
takes  us  into  the  schools  of  inhumanist  learning, 
where  there  are  neither  books  nor  flowers,  nor 
wine  nor  wisdom,  but  only  deformities  in  glass 
bottles,  and  where  the  rule  is  taught  from  the 
exceptions.  Zola's  truth  answers  the  exact  de- 
scription of  the  skeleton  in  the  cupboard ;  that  is, 
it  is  something  of  which  a  domestic  custom  forbids 
the  discovery,  but  which  is  quite  dead,  even  when 
87 


All  Things  Considered 

it  is  discovered.  Macaulay  said  tliat  the  Puiitans 
hated  bear-bailing,  not  because  it  gave  pain  to  the 
bear,  but  because  it  gave  pleasure  to  the  spectators. 
Of  such  substance  also  was  this  Puritan  who  had 
lost  his  God.  A  Puritan  of  this  type  is  worse  than 
the  Puritan  who  hates  pleasure  because  there  is 
evil  in  it.  This  man  actually  hates  evil  because 
there  is  pleasure  in  it.  Zola  was  worse  than  a 
pornographer,  he  was  a  pessimist.  He  did  worse 
than  encourage  sin :  he  encouraged  discourage- 
ment. He  made  lust  loathsome  because  to  him 
lust  meant  life. 


88 


Oxford  from  Without       ©        ©        © 

COME  time  ago  I  ventured  to  defend  that 
race  of  hunted  and  persecuted  outlaws, 
the  Bishops ;  but  until  this  week  I  had  no  idea 
of  how  much  persecuted  they  were.  For  instance, 
the  Bishop  of  Birmingham  made  some  extremely 
sensible  remarks  in  the  House  of  Lords,  to  the 
effect  that  Oxford  and  Cambridge  were  (as  every- 
body knows  they  are)  far  too  much  merely  pluto- 
cratic playgrounds.  One  would  have  thought  that 
an  Anglican  Bishop  might  be  allowed  to  know 
something  about  the  English  University  system, 
and  even  to  have,  if  anything,  some  bias  in  its 
favour.  Bat  (as  I  pointed  out)  the  rollicking 
Radicalism  of  Bishops  has  to  be  restrained.  The 
man  who  writes  the  notes  in  the  weekly  paper 
called  the  On/look  feels  that  it  is  his  business  to 
restrain  it.  The  passage  has  such  simple  sub- 
limity that  I  must  quote  it — 

"  Dr,  Gore  talked  unworthily  of  his  reputation  when 
he  spoke  of  the   older  Universities   as   playgrounds 


All  Things  Considered 

or  the  rich  and  idle.  In  the  first  place,  the  rich 
men  there  arc  not  idle.  Some  of  the  rich  men  are, 
and  so  arc  some  of  the  poor  men.  On  the  whole, 
the  sons  of  noble  and  wealthy  families  keep  up  the 
best  traditions  of  academic  life. 

So  far  this  seems  all  very  nice.  It  is  a  part  of 
the  universal  principle  on  which  Englishmen  have 
acted  in  recent  years.  As  you  will  not  try  to 
make  the  best  people  the  most  powerful  people, 
persuade  yourselves  that  the  most  powerful  people 
are  the  best  people.  Mid  Frenchmen  and  Irish- 
men try  to  realise  the  i^leal.  To  you  belongs 
the  nobler  (and  much  easier)  task  of  idealising  the 
real.  First  give  your  Universities  entirely  into  the 
power  of  the  rich  ;  then  let  the  rich  start  traditions  ; 
and  then  congratulate  yourselves  on  the  fact  that 
the  sons  of  the  rich  keep  up  these  traditions.  All 
that  is  quite  simp'e  and  jolly.  But  then  this  critic, 
who  crushes  Dr.  Gore  from  the  high  throne  of  the 
Outlook,  goes  on  in  a  way  that  is  really  perplexing. 
"  It  is  distinctly  advantageous,"  he  says,  "  that 
rich  and  poor — i.c.^  young  men  with  a  smooth  path 
in  life  before  them,  and  those  who  have  to  hew  out 
a  road  for  themselves — should  be  brought  into 
association.  Each  class  learns  a  great  deal  from 
the  other.  On  the  one  side,  social  conceit  and 
exclusiveness  give  way  to  the  free  spirit  of  com- 
petition amongst  all  classes  ;  on  the  other  side, 
90 


Oxford  from   Without 

angularities  and  prejudices  are  rubbed  anay." 
Even  this  I  might  have  swallowed.  But  the  para- 
graph concludes  with  this  extraordinary  sentence  : 
"We  get  the  net  result  in  such  careers  as  those 
of  Lord  Milner,  Lord  Curzon,  and  Mr.  Asquith." 

Those  three  names  lay  my  intellect  prostrate. 
The  rest  of  the  argument  I  understand  quite  well. 
The  social  exclusiveness  of  aristocrats  at  Oxford 
and  Cambridge  gives  way  before  the  free  spirit 
of  competition  amongst  all  classes.  That  is  to 
say,  there  is  at  Oxford  so  hot  and  keen  a  struggle, 
consisting  of  coal-heavers,  London  clerks,  gypsies, 
navvies,  drapers'  assistants,  grocers'  assistants — in 
short,  all  the  classes  that  make  up  the  bulk  of 
England — there  is  such  a  fierce  competition  at 
Oxford  among  all  tliese  people  that  in  its  presence 
aristocratic  exclusiveness  gives  way.  That  is  all 
quite  clear.  I  am  not  quite  sure  about  the  facts, 
but  I  quite  understand  the  argument.  But  then, 
having  been  called  upon  to  contemplate  this 
bracing  picture  of  a  boisterous  turmoil  of  all  the 
classes  of  England,  I  am  suddenly  asked  to  accept 
as  example  of  it,  Lord  Milner,  Lord  Curzon,  and 
the  present  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer.  What 
part  do  these  gentlemen  play  in  the  mental  pro- 
cess? Is  Lord  Curzon  one  of  the  rugged  and 
ragged  poor  men  whose  angularities  have  been 
rubbed  away  ?  Or  is  he  one  of  those  whom 
91 


All  Things  Considered 

Oxford  immediately  deprived  of  all  kind  of  social 
exclusiveness  ?  His  Oxford  reputation  does  not 
seem  to  bear  out  either  account  of  him.  To 
regard  Lord  Milner  as  a  typical  product  of  Oxford 
would  surely  be  unfiiir.  It  would  be  to  deprive 
the  educational  tradition  of  Germany  of  one  of  its 
most  typical  products.  English  aristocrats  have 
their  faults,  but  they  are  not  at  all  like  Lord 
Milner.  What  Mr.  Asquith  was  meant  to  prove, 
whether  he  was  a  rich  man  who  lost  his  exclusive- 
ness, or  a  poor  man  who  lost  his  angles,  I  am 
utterly  unable  to  conceive. 

There  is,  however,  one  mild  but  very  evident 
truth  that  might  perhaps  be  mentioned.  And  it  is 
this  :  that  none  of  those  three  excellent  persons  is, 
or  ever  has  been,  a  poor  man  in  the  sense  that 
that  word  is  understood  by  the  overwhelming 
majority  of  the  English  nation.  There  are  no 
poor  men  at  Oxford  in  the  sense  that  the  majority 
of  men  in  the  street  are  poor.  The  very  fact  that 
the  writer  in  the  Ouflook  can  talk  about  such 
people  as  poor  shows  that  he  does  not  understand 
what  the  modern  problem  is.  His  kind  of  poor 
man  rather  reminds  me  of  the  Earl  in  the  ballad 
by  that  great  English  satirist.  Sir  W.  S.  Gilbert, 
whose  angles  (very  acute  angles)  had,  I  fear, 
never  been  rubbed  down  by  an  old  English 
University.  The  reader  will  remember  that  when 
92 


Oxford  from  Without 

the  Periwinkle-girl  was  adored  by  two  Dukes,  the 
poet  added — 

"  A  third  adorer  had  the  girl, 
A  man  of  lowly  station  ; 
A  miserable  grovelling  Earl 
Besought  her  approbation." 

Perhaps,  indeed,  some  allusion  to  our  University 
system,  and  to  the  universal  clash  in  it  of  all  the 
classes  of  the  community,  may  be  found  in  the 
verse  a  little  farther  on,  which  says — 

"  He'd  had,  it  happily  befell, 
A  decent  education  ; 
His  views  would  have  befitted  well 
A  far  superior  station." 

Possibly  there  was  as  simple  a  chasm  between 
Lord  Curzon  and  Lord  Milner.  But  I  am  afraid 
that  the  chasm  will  become  almost  imperceptible, 
a  microscopic  crack,  if  we  compare  it  with  the 
chasm  that  separates  either  or  both  of  them  from 
the  people  of  this  country. 

Of  course  the  truth  is  exactly  as  the  Bishop  of 
Birmingham  put  it.  I  am  sure  that  he  did  not  put 
it  in  any  unkindly  or  contemptuous  spirit  towards 
those  old  English  seats  of  learning,  which  whether 
they  are  or  are  not  seats  of  learning,  are,  at  any 
rate,  old  and  English,  and  those  are  two  very  good 
things  to  be.  The  old  English  University  is  a 
93 


All  Thliiiis  Considered 


playground  for  the  governing  class.  That  does 
not  prove  that  it  is  a  bad  thing ;  it  might  prove 
that  it  was  a  very  good  thing.  Certainly  if  there 
is  a  governing  class,  let  there  be  a  playground  for 
the  governing  class.  I  would  much  rather  be 
ruled  by  men  who  know  how  to  play  than  by  men 
who  do  not  know  how  to  play.  Granted  that  wo 
are  to  be  governed  by  a  ricli  section  of  the  com- 
munity, it  is  certainly  very  important  that  that 
section  should  be  kept  tolerably  genial  and  jolly. 
If  the  sensitive  man  on  the  Outlook  does  not  like 
the  phrase,  "  Playground  of  the  rich,"  I  can  suggest 
a  phrase  that  describes  such  a  place  as  Oxford 
perhaps  with  more  precision.  It  is  a  place  for 
humanising  those  who  might  otherwise  be  tyrants, 
or  even  experts. 

To  pretend  that  the  aristocrat  meets  all  classes 
at  Oxford  is  too  ludicrous  to  be  worth  discussion. 
But  it  may  be  true  that  he  meets  more  difierent 
kinds  of  men  than  he  would  meet  under  a  strictly 
aristocratic  regime  of  private  tutors  and  small 
schools.  It  all  comes  back  to  the  fact  that  the 
English,  if  they  were  resolved  to  have  an  aristo- 
cracy, were  at  least  resolved  to  have  a  good  natured 
aristocracy.  And  it  is  due  to  them  to  say  that 
almost  alone  among  the  peoples  of  the  world,  they 
have  succeeded  in  getting  one.  One  could  almost 
tolerate  the  thing,  if  it  were  not  for  the  praise 
94 


Oxford  from  Without 

of  it.  One  might  endure  Oxford,  but  not  the 
Outlook. 

When  the  poor  man  at  Oxford  loses  his  angles 
(which  means,  I  suppose,  his  independence),  he 
may  perhaps,  even  if  his  poverty  is  of  that  highly 
relative  type  possible  at  Oxford,  gain  a  certain 
amount  of  worldly  advantage  from  the  surrender 
of  those  angles.  I  must  confess,  however,  that  I 
can  imagine  nothing  nastier  than  to  lose  one's 
angles.  It  seems  to  me  that  a  desire  to  retain 
some  angles  about  one's  person  is  a  desire  common 
to  all  those  human  beings  who  do  not  set  their 
ultimate  hopes  upon  looking  like  Humpty-Dumpty. 
Our  angles  are  simply  our  shapes.  I  cannot 
imagine  any  phrase  more  full  of  the  subtle  and 
exquisite  vileness  which  is  poisoning  and  weaken- 
ing our  country  than  such  a  phrase  as  this,  about 
the  desirability  of  rubbing  down  the  angularities  of 
poor  men.  Reduced  to  permanent  and  practical 
human  speech,  it  means  nothing  whatever  except 
the  corrupting  of  that  first  human  sense  of  justice 
which  is  the  critic  of  all  human  institutions. 

It  is  not  in  any  such  spirit  of  facile  and  reckless 
reassurance  that  we  should  approach  the  really 
difficult  problein  of  the  delicate  virtues  and  the 
deep  dangers  of  our  two  historic  seats  of  learning. 
A  good  son  does  not  easily  admit  that  his  sick 
mother  is  dying;  but  neither  does  a  good  son 
95 


All  Thiiio-s  Considered 


cheerily  assert  that  she  is  "  all  right."  There  are 
many  good  arguments  for  leaving  the  two  historic 
Universities  exactly  as  they  are.  There  are  many 
good  arguments  for  smashing  them  or  altering 
them  entirely.  But  in  either  case  the  plain  truth 
told  by  the  Bishop  of  Birmingham  remains.  If 
these  Universities  were  destroyed,  they  would  not 
be  destroyed  as  Universities.  If  they  are  pre- 
served, they  will  not  be  preserved  as  Universities. 
They  will  be  preserved  strictly  and  literally  as 
playgrounds ;  places  valued  for  their  hours  of 
leisure  more  than  for  their  hours  of  work.  I  do 
not  say  that  this  is  unreasonable  j  as  a  matter 
of  private  temperament  I  find  it  attractive.  It  is 
not  only  possible  to  say  a  great  deal  in  praise  of 
play  ;  it  is  really  possible  to  say  the  highest  things 
in  praise  of  it.  It  might  reasonably  be  maintained 
that  the  true  object  of  all  human  life  is  play. 
Earth  is  a  task  garden  ;  heaven  is  a  playground. 
To  be  at  last  in  such  secure  innocence  that  one 
can  juggle  with  the  universe  and  the  stars,  to  be  so 
good  that  one  can  treat  everything  as  a  joke — 
that  may  be,  perhaps,  the  real  end  and  final  holi- 
day of  human  souls.  When  we  are  really  holy  we 
may  regard  the  Universe  as  a  lark  ;  so  perhaps 
it  is  not  essentially  wrong  to  regard  the  University 
as  a  lark.  But  the  plain  and  present  fact  is  that 
our  upper  classes  do  regard  the  University  as  a 
96 


Oxford  from   Without 

lark,  and  do  not  regard  it  as  a  University.  It  also 
happens  very  often  that  through  some  oversight 
they  neglect  to  provide  themselves  with  that  ex- 
treme degree  of  holiness  which  I  have  postulated 
as  a  necessary  preliminary  to  such  indulgence  in 
the  higher  frivolity. 

Humanity,  always  dreaming  of  a  happy  race, 
free,  fantastic,  and  at  ease,  has  sometimes  pictured 
them  in  some  mystical  island,  sometimes  in  some 
celestial  city,  sometimes  as  fairies,  gods,  or  citizens 
of  Atlantis.  But  one  method  in  which  it  has  often 
indulged  is  to  picture  them  as  aristocrats,  as  a 
special  human  class  that  could  actually  be  seen 
hunting  in  the  woods  or  driving  about  the  streets. 
And  this  never  was  (as  some  silly  Germans  say) 
a  worship  of  pride  and  scorn ;  mankind  never 
really  admired  pride  ;  mankind  never  had  anything 
but  a  scorn  for  scorn.  It  was  a  worship  of  the 
spectacle  of  happiness  ;  especially  of  the  spectacle 
of  youth.  This  is  what  the  old  Universities  in 
their  noblest  aspect  really  are ;  and  this  is  why 
there  is  always  something  to  be  said  for  keeping 
them  as  they  are.  Aristocracy  is  not  a  tyranny  ; 
it  is  not  even  merely  a  spelL  It  is  a  vision.  It 
is  a  deliberate  indulgence  in  a  certain  picture  of 
pleasure  painted  for  the  purpose;  every  Duchess 
is  (in  an  innocent  sense)  painted,  like  Gains- 
borough's •'  Duchess  of  Devonshire."  She  is  only 
H  97 


All  Things  Considered 

beautiful  because,  at  the  back  of  all,  the  English 
people  wanted  her  to  be  beautiful.  In  the  same 
way,  the  lads  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge  are  only 
larking  because  England,  in  the  depths  of  its 
solemn  soul,  really  wishes  them  to  lark.  All  this 
is  very  human  and  pardonable,  and  would  be  even 
harmless  if  there  were  no  such  things  in  the  world 
as  danger  and  honour  and  intellectual  respon- 
sibility. But  if  aristocracy  is  a  vision,  it  is  perhaps 
the  most  unpractical  of  all  visions.  It  is  not  a 
working  way  of  doing  things  to  put  all  your 
happiest  people  on  a  lighted  platform  and  stare 
only  at  them.  It  is  not  a  working  way  of  manag- 
ing education  to  be  entirely  content  with  the  mere 
fact  that  you  have  (to  a  degree  unexampled  in  the 
world)  given  the  luckiest  boys  the  jolliest  time. 
It  would  be  easy  enough,  like  the  writer  in  the 
Outlook,  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  and  deny  the  perils. 
Oh,  what  a  happy  place  England  would  be  to  live 
in  if  only  one  did  not  love  it  1 


93 


I     J^ 


Woman        ©        @        ©        ©        O 

A  CORRESPONDENT  has  written  me  an  able 
-^  and  interesting  letter  in  the  matter  of  some 
aUusions  of  mine  to  the  subject  of  communal 
kitchens.  He  defends  communal  kitchens  very 
lucidly  from  the  standpoint  of  the  calculating 
collectivist ;  but,  like  many  of  his  school,  he 
cannot  apparently  grasp  that  there  is  another 
test  of  the  whole  matter,  with  which  such  cal- 
culation has  nothing  at  all  to  do.  He  knows 
it  would  be  cheaper  if  a  number  of  us  ate  at 
the  same  time,  so  as  to  use  the  same  table.  So 
it  would.  It  would  also  be  cheaper  if  a  number 
of  us  slept  at  different  times,  so  as  to  use  the  same 
pair  of  trousers.  But  the  question  is  not  how 
cheap  are  we  buying  a  thing,  but  what  are  wc 
buying?  It  is  cheap  to  own  a  slave.  And  it  is 
cheaper  still  to  be  a  slave. 

My  correspondent  also  says  that  the  habit  of 
dining  out  in  restaurants,   etc.,   is   growing.     So, 
I  believe,  is  the  habit  of  committing  suicide.     I 
99 


All  Things  Considered 

do  not  desire  to  connect  the  two  facts  together. 
It  seems  fairly  clear  that  a  man  could  not  dine 
at  a  restaurant  because  he  had  just  committed 
suicide;  and  it  would  be  extreme,  perhaps,  to 
suggest  that  he  commits  suicide  because  he  has 
just  dined  at  a  restaurant.  But  the  two  cases, 
when  put  side  by  side,  are  enough  to  indicate 
the  falsity  and  poltroonery  of  this  eternal  modern 
argument  from  what  is  in  fashion.  The  question 
for  brave  men  is  not  whether  a  certain  thing  is 
increasing ;  the  question  is  whether  we  are  in- 
creasing it.  I  dine  very  often  in  restaurants 
because  the  nature  of  my  trade  makes  it  con- 
venient :  but  if  I  thought  that  by  dining  in 
restaurants  I  was  working  for  the  creation  of 
communal  meals,  I  would  never  enter  a  restaurant 
again;  I  would  carry  bread  and  cheese  in  my  pocket 
or  eat  chocolate  out  of  automatic  machines.  For 
the  personal  element  in  some  things  is  sacred.  I 
heard  Mr.  Will  Crooks  put  it  perfectly  the  other 
day :  '*  The  most  sacred  thing  is  to  be  able  to 
shut  your  own  door." 

My  correspondent  says,  "  Would  not  our  women 
be  spared  the  drudgery  of  cooking  and  all  its 
attendant  worries,  leaving  them  free  for  higher 
culture  ? "  The  first  thing  that  occurs  to  me  to 
say  about  this  is  very  simple,  and  is,  I  imagine, 
a  part  of  all  our  experience.     If  my  correspondent 


Woman 

can  find  any  way  of  preventing  women  from  worry- 
ing, he  will  indeed  be  a  remarkable  man.  I 
think  the  matter  is  a  much  deeper  one.  First  of 
all,  my  correspondent  overlooks  a  distinction  which 
is  elementary  in  our  human  nature.  Theoretically, 
I  suppose,  every  one  would  like  to  be  freed  from 
worries.  But  nobody  in  the  world  would  always 
like  to  be  freed  from  worrying  occupations.  I 
should  very  much  like  (as  far  as  my  feelings  at 
the  moment  go)  to  be  free  from  the  consuming 
nuisance  of  writing  this  article.  But  it  does  not 
follow  that  I  should  like  to  be  free  from  the 
consuming  nuisance  of  being  a  journalist.  Be- 
cause we  are  worried  about  a  thing,  it  does  not 
follow  that  we  are  not  interested  in  it.  The  truth 
is  the  other  way.  If  we  are  not  interested,  why 
on  earth  should  we  be  worried?  Women  are 
worried  about  housekeeping,  but  those  that  are 
most  interested  are  the  most  worried.  Women 
are  still  more  worried  about  their  husbands  and 
their  children.  And  I  suppose  if  we  strangled 
the  children  and  poleaxed  the  husbands  it  would 
leave  women  free  for  higher  culture.  That  is,  it 
would  leave  them  free  to  begin  to  worry  about 
that.  For  women  would  worry  about  higher 
culture  as  much  as  they  worry  about  everything 
else. 

I  believe  this  way  of  talking  about  women  and 


All   Things  Considered 

their  higlier  culture  is  almost  entirely  a  growth 
of  the  classes  which  (unlike  the  journalislic  class 
to  which  I  belong)  have  always  a  reasonable 
amount  of  money.  One  odd  thing  I  specially 
notice.  Those  who  write  like  this  seem  entirely 
to  forget  the  existence  of  the  working  and  wage- 
earning  classes.  They  say  eternally,  like  my 
correspondent,  that  the  ordinary  woman  is  always 
a  druJge.  And  what,  in  the  name  of  the  Nine 
Gods,  is  the  ordinary  man  ?  These  people  seem  to 
think  that  the  ordinary  man  is  a  Cabinet  Minister. 
They  are  always  talking  about  man  going  forth 
to  wield  power,  to  carve  his  own  way,  to  stamp 
his  individuality  on  the  world,  to  command  and 
to  be  obeyed.  This  may  be  true  of  a  certain 
class.  Dukes,  perhaps,  are  not  drudges;  but, 
then,  neither  are  Duchesses.  The  Ladies  and 
Gentlemen  of  the  Smart  Set  are  quite  free  for 
the    higher    culture,    which    consists     chiefly    of 

y  motoring  and  Bridge.  But  the  ordinary  man 
who  typifies  and  constitutes  the  millions  that 
make  up  our  civilisation  is  no  more  free  for 
the  higher  culture  than  his  wife  is. 

Indeed,  he  is  not  so  free.     Of  the  two  sexes  the 
woman  is  in  the  more  powerful  position.     For  the 

>.  average  woman  is  at  the  head  of  something  with 
which  she  can  do  as  she  likes;  the  average  man 
has  to  obey  orders  and  do  nothing  else.     Me  has 


Woman 

to  put  one  dull  brick  on  another  dull  brick,  and 
do  nothing  else ;  he  has  to  add  one  dull  figure  to 
another  dull  figure,  and  do  nothing  else.  The 
woman's  world  is  a  small  one,  perhaps,  but  she 
can  alter  it.  The  woman  can  tell  the  tradesman 
with  whom  she  deals  some  realistic  things  about 
himself.  The  clerk  who  does  this  to  the  manager  ' 
generally  gets  the  sack,  or  shall  we  say  (to  avoid 
the  vulgarism),  finds  himself  free  for  higher 
culture.  Above  all,  as  I  said  in  my  previous 
article,  the  woman  does  work  which  is  in  some 
small  degree  creative  and  individual.  She  can 
put  the  flowers  or  the  furniture  in  fancy  arrange- 
ments of  her  own.  I  fear  the  bricklayer  cannot 
put  the  bricks  in  fancy  arrangements  of  his  own, 
without  disaster  to  himself  and  others.  If  the 
woman  is  only  putting  a  patch  into  a  carpet,  she 
can  choose  the  thing  with  regard  to  colour.  I 
fear  it  would  not  do  for  the  office  boy  dispatching 
a  parcel  to  choose  his  stamps  with  a  view  to 
colour;  to  prefer  the  tender  mauve  of  the  six- 
penny to  the  crude  scarlet  of  the  penny  stamp. 
A  woman  cooking  may  not  a[ways  cook  artisti- 
cally ;  still  she  can  cook  artistically.  She  can 
introduce  a  personal  and  imperceptible  alteration 
into  the  composition  of  a  soup.  The  clerk  is 
not  encouraged  to  introduce  a  personal  and  im- 
perceptible alteration  into  the  figures  in  a  ledger. 
103 


All  Things  Considered 

The  trouble  is  that  the  real  question  I  raised 
is  not  discussed.  It  is  argued  as  a  problem  in 
pennies,  not  as  a  problem  in  people.  It  is  not 
the  proposals  of  these  reformers  that  I  feel  to 
be  false  so  much  as  their  temper  and  their 
arguments.  I  am  not  nearly  so  certain  that 
communal  kitchens  are  wrong  as  I  am  that  the 
defenders  of  communal  kitchens  are  wrong.  Of 
course,  for  one  thing,  there  is  a  vast  difference 
between  the  communal  kitchens  of  which  I  spoke 
and  the  communal  meal  {monsinun  horrcndum, 
iuformc)  which  the  darker  and  wilder  mind  of 
my  correspondent  diabolically  calls  up.  But  in 
both  the  trouble  is  that  their  defenders  will  not 
defend  them  humanly  as  human  institutions. 
They  will  not  interest  themselves  in  the  staring 
psychological  fact  that  there  are  some  things  that 
a  man  or  a  woman,  as  the  case  may  be,  wishes 
to  do  for  himself  or  herself.  He  or  she  must 
do  it  inventively,  creatively,  artistically,  indi- 
vidually— in  a  word,  badly.  Choosing  your  wife 
(say)  is  one  of  these  things.  Is  choosing  your 
husband's  dinner  one  of  these  things?  That  is 
the  whole  question  :  it  is  never  asked. 

And    then   the   higher   culture.     I    know   that 

culture.     I  would   not   set   any  man   free   for   it 

if  I  could  help  it     The  effect  of  it  on  the  rich 

men  who  are   free  for  it  is  so  horrible  that  it  is 

104 


Woman 

worse  than  any  of  the  other  amusements  of  the 
millionnaire — worse  than  gambling,  worse  even 
than  philanthropy.  It  means  thinking  the  smallest 
poet  in  Belgium  greater  than  the  greatest  poet 
of  England.  It  means  losing  every  democratic 
sympathy.  It  means  being  unable  to  talk  to  a 
navvy  about  sport,  or  about  beer,  or  about  the 
Bible,  or  about  the  Derby,  or  about  patriotism, 
or  about  anything  whatever  that  he,  the  navvy, 
wants  to  talk  about.  It  means  taking  literature 
seriously,  a  very  amateurish  thing  to  do.  It  means 
pardoning  indecency  only  when  it  is  gloomy  in- 
decency. Its  disciples  will  call  a  spade  a  spade : 
but  only  when  it  is  a  grave-digger's  spade.  The 
higher  culture  is  sad,  cheap,  impudent,  unkind, 
without  honesty  and  without  ease.  In  short,  it 
is  "high."  That  abominable  word  (also  applied 
to  game)  admirably  describes  it. 

No;  if  you  were  setting  women  free  for  some- 
thing else,  I  might  be  more  melted.  If  you  can 
assure  me,  privately  and  gravely,  that  you  are 
setting  women  free  to  dance  on  the  mountains 
like  JSIsenads,  or  to  worship  some  monstrous 
goddess,  I  will  make  a  note  of  your  request.  If 
you  are  quite  sure  that  the  ladies  in  Brixton,  the 
moment  they  give  up  cooking,  will  beat  great 
gongs  and  blow  horns  to  ]\I umbo- Jumbo,  then 
I  will  agree  that  the  occupation  is  at  least  human 
105 


All  Things  Considered 

and  is  more  or  less  entertaining.  Women  liave 
been  set  free  to  be  Bacchantes;  they  have  been 
set  free  to  be  \'irgin  Martyrs ;  they  have  been 
set  free  to  be  Witches.  Do  not  ask  them  now 
to  sink  so  low  as  the  higher  culture. 

I  have  my  own  little  notions  of  the  possible 
emancipation  of  women  j  but  I  suppose  I  should 
not  be  taken  very  seriously  if  I  propounded  them. 
I  should  favour  anything  that  would  increase  the 
present  enormous  authority  of  women  and  their 
creative  action  in  their  own  homes.  The  average 
woman,  as  I  have  said,  is  a  despot ;  the  average 
man  is  a  serf.  I  am  for  any  scheme  that  any 
one  can  suggest  that  will  make  the  average 
woman  more  of  a  despot.  So  far  from  wishing 
her  to  get  her  cooked  meals  from  outside,  I  should 
like  her  to  cook  more  wildly  and  at  her  own  will 
than  she  does.  So  far  from  getting  always  the 
same  meals  from  the  same  place,  let  her  invent, 
if  she  likes,  a  new  dish  every  day  of  her  life. 
Let  woman  be  more  of  a  maker,  not  less.  We 
are  right  to  talk  about  "  Woman "  :  only  black- 
guards talk  about  women.  Yet  all  men  talk  about 
men,  and  that  is  the  whole  difference.  Men 
represent  the  deliberative  and  democratic  element 
in  life.     Woman  represents  the  despotic. 


|o6 


The  Modern  Martyr       O        ©        O 

'T^HE  incident  of  the  Suffragettes  who  ch.ained 
-"-  themselves  with  iron  chains  to  the  railings  of 
Downing  Street  is  a  good  ironical  allegory  of  most 
modern  martyrdom.  It  generally  consists  of  a 
man  chaining  himself  up  and  then  complaining 
that  he  is  not  free.  Some  say  that  such  larks 
retard  the  cause  of  female  suffrage,  others  say 
that  such  larks  alone  can  advance  it ;  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  do  not  believe  that  they  have  the  smallest 
effect  one  way  or  the  other. 

The  modern  notion  of  impressing  the  public  by 
a  mere  demonstration  of  unpopularity,  by  being 
thrown  out  of  meetings  or  thrown  into  jail,  is 
largely  a  mistake.  It  rests  on  a  fallacy  touching 
the  true  popular  value  of  martyrdom.  People 
look  at  human  history  and  see  that  it  has  often 
happened  that  persecutions  have  not  only  adver- 
tised but  even  advanced  a  persecuted  creed,  and 
given  to  its  validity  the  public  and  dreadful  wit- 
ness of  dying  men.  The  paradox  was  pictorially 
107 


All  Things  Considered 

expressed  in  Christian  art,  in  which  saints  were 
shown  brandishing  as  weapons  the  very  tools  that 
had  slain  them.  And  because  his  martyrdom  is 
thus  a  power  to  the  martyr,  modern  people  think 
that  any  one  who  makes  himself  slightly  uncom- 
fortable in  public  will  immediately  be  uproariously 
popular.  This  element  of  inadequate  martyrdom 
is  not  true  only  of  the  Suffragettes  ;  it  is  true  of 
many  movements  I  respect  and  some  that  I  agree 
with.  It  was  true,  for  instance,  of  the  Passive 
Resisters,  who  had  pieces  of  their  furniture  sold 
up.  The  assumption  is  that  if  you  show  your 
ordinary  sincerity  (or  even  your  political  ambition) 
by  being  a  nuisance  to  yourself  as  well  as  to  other 
people,  you  will  have  the  strength  of  the  great 
saints  who  passed  through  the  fire.  Any  one  who 
can  be  hustled  in  a  hall  for  five  minutes,  or  put  in 
a  cell  for  five  days,  has  achieved  what  was  meant 
by  martyrdom,  and  has  a  halo  in  the  Christian  art 
of  the  future.  Miss  Pankhurst  will  be  represented 
holding  a  policeman  in  each  hand — the  instru- 
ments of  her  martyrdom.  The  Passive  Resister 
will  be  shown  symbolically  carrying  the  teapot 
that  was  torn  from  him  by  tyrannical  auctioneers. 

But  there  is  a  fallacy  in  this  analogy  of  martyr- 
dom.    The  truth  is  that   the  special  impressive- 
ness  which  does  come  from  being  persecuted  only 
happens  in  the  case  of  extreme  persecution.     For 
1 08 


The  Modern   Martyr 

the  fact  that  the  modern  enthusiast  will  undergo 
some  inconvenience  for  the  creed  he  holds  only 
proves  that  he  does  hold  it,  which  no  one  ever 
doubted.  No  one  doubts  that  the  Nonconformist 
minister  cares  more  for  Nonconformity  than  he 
does  for  his  teapot.  No  one  doubts  that  Miss 
Pankhurst  wants  a  vote  more  than  she  wants  a 
quiet  afternoon  and  an  armchair.  All  our  ordinary 
intellectual  opinions  are  worth  a  bit  of  a  row: 
I  remember  during  the  Boer  War  fighting  an 
Imperialist  clerk  outside  the  Queen's  Hall,  and 
giving  and  receiving  a  bloody  nose  ;  but  I  did  not 
think  it  one  of  the  incidents  that  produce  the 
psychological  effect  of  the  Roman  amphitheatre 
or  the  stake  at  Smithfield.  For  in  that  impression 
there  is  something  more  than  the  mere  fact  that 
a  man  is  sincere  enough  to  give  his  time  or  his 
comfort.  Pagans  were  not  impressed  by  the 
torture  of  Christians  merely  because  it  showed 
that  they  honestly  held  their  opinion  ;  they  knew 
that  millions  of  people  honestly  held  all  sorts  of 
opinions.  The  point  of  such  extreme  martyrdom 
is  much  more  subtle.  It  is  that  it  gives  an 
appearance  of  a  man  having  something  quite 
specially  strong  to  back  him  up,  of  his  drawing 
upon  some  power.  And  this  can  only  be  proved 
when  all  his  physical  contentment  is  destroyed ; 
when  all  the  current  of  his  bodily  being  is  reversed 
109 


All  Things  Considered 

and  turned  lo  piin.  If  a  man  is  seen  to  be 
roaring  with  laughter  all  the  time  that  he  is 
skinned  alive,  it  would  not  be  unreasonable  to 
deduce  that  somewhere  in  the  recesses  of  his 
mind  he  had  thought  of  a  rather  good  joke. 
Similarly,  if  men  smiled  and  sang  (as  they  did) 
while  they  were  being  boiled  or  torn  in  pieces, 
the  spectators  felt  the  presence  of  something  more 
than  mere  mental  honesty  :  they  felt  the  presence 
of  some  new  and  unintelligible  kind  of  pleasure, 
which,  presumably,  came  from  somewhere.  It 
might  be  a  strength  of  madness,  or  a  lying  spirit 
from  Hell ;  but  it  was  something  quite  positive 
and  extraordinary;  as  positive  as  brandy  and  as 
extraordinary  as  conjuring.  The  Pagan  said  to  >/ 
himself:  "  If  Christianity  makes  a  man  happy 
while  his  legs  are  being  eaten  by  a  lion,  might  it 
not  make  me  happy  while  my  legs  are  still  attached 
to  me  and  walking  down  the  street?"  The  Secu- 
larists laboriously  explain  that  martyrdoms  do  not ' 
prove  a  faith  to  be  true,  as  if  anybody  was  ever 
such  a  fool  as  to  suppose  that  they  did.  What 
they  did  prove,  or,  rather,  strongly  suggest,  was 
that  something  had  entered  human  psychology 
which  was  stronger  than  strong  pain.  If  a  young 
gill,  scourged  and  bleeding  to  dea'h,  saw  nothing 
but  a  crown  descending  on  her  from  God,  the  first 
mental  step  was  not  that  lier  philosophy  was 
no 


The   Modem    Martyr 

correct,  but  that  she  was  certainly  feeding  on 
something.  But  this  particular  point  of  psychology 
does  not  arise  at  all  in  the  modern  cases  of  mere 
l)ublic  discomfort  or  inconvenience.  The  causes  of 
]\Iiss  Pankhurst's  cheerfulness  require  no  mystical 
explanations.  If  she  were  being  burned  alive  as  a 
witch,  if  she  then  looked  up  in  unmixed  rapture 
an.l  saw  a  ballot-box  descending  out  of  heaven, 
then  I  should  say  that  the  incident,  though  not 
conclusive,  was  frightfully  impressive.  It  would 
not  prove  logically  that  she  ought  to  have  the 
vote,  or  that  anybody  ought  to  have  the  vote. 
But  it  would  prove  this :  that  there  was,  for  some 
reason,  a  sacramental  reality  in  the  vote,  that  the 
soul  could  take  the  vote  and  feed  on  it ;  that  it 
was  in  itself  a  positive  and  overpowering  pleasure, 
capable  of  being  pitted  against  positive  and  over- 
powering pain. 

I  should  advise  modern  agitators,  therefore,  to 
give  up  this  particular  method  :  the  method  of 
making  very  big  efforts  to  get  a  very  small  punish- 
ment. It  does  not  really  go  down  at  all ;  the 
punishment  is  too  small,  and  the  efforts  are  too 
obvious.  It  has  not  any  of  the  effectiveness  of 
the  old  savage  martyrdom,  because  it  does  not 
leave  the  victim  absolutely  alone  with  his  cause, 
so  that  his  cause  alone  can  support  him.  At  the 
same   time   it  has   about  it  that  element  of  the 


All  Things  Considered 

pantomimic  and  the  absurd,  which  was  the 
cruellest  part  of  the  slaying  and  the  mocking  of 
the  real  pro[)hets.  St.  Peter  was  crucified  upside 
down  as  a  huge  inhuman  joke  ;  but  his  human 
seriousness  survived  the  inhuman  joke,  because, 
in  whatever  posture,  he  had  died  for  his  faith. 
The  modern  martyr  of  the  Pankhurst  type  courts 
the  absurdity  without  making  the  suffering  strong 
enough  to  eclipse  the  absurdity.  She  is  like  a 
St.  Peter  who  should  deliberately  stand  on  his 
head  for  ten  seconds  and  then  expect  to  be 
canonised  for  it. 

Or,  again,  the  matter  might  be  put  in  this  way. 
Modern  martyrdoms  fail  even  as  demonstrations, 
because  they  do  not  prove  even  that  the  martyrs 
are  completely  serious.  I  think,  as  a  fact,  that 
the  modern  martyrs  generally  are  serious,  perhaps 
a  trifle  too  serious.  But  their  martyrdom  does  not 
prove  it;  and  the  public  does  not  always  believe 
it.  Undoubtedly,  as  a  fact.  Dr.  Clifford  is  quite 
honourably  indignant  with  what  he  considers  to 
be  clericalism ;  but  he  does  not  prove  it  by  having 
his  teapot  sold ;  for  a  man  might  easily  have  his 
teapot  sold  as  an  actress  has  her  diamonds  stolen 
— as  a  personal  advertisement.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  Miss  Pankhurst  is  quite  in  earnest  about 
votes  for  women.  But  she  does  not  prove  it  by 
being  chucked  out  of  meetings.  A  person  might 
iia 


The  Modern   Martyr 

be  chucked  out  of  meetings  just  as  young  men 
are  chucked  out  of  music-halls — for  fun.  But  no 
man  has  himself  eaten  by  a  lion  as  a  personal 
advertisement.  No  woman  is  broiled  on  a  grid- 
iron for  fun.  That  is  where  the  testimony  of 
St.  Perpetua  and  St.  Faith  comes  in.  Doubtless 
it  is  no  fault  of  these  enthusiasts  that  they  are 
not  subjected  to  the  old  and  searching  penalties ; 
very  likely  they  would  pass  through  them  as 
triumphantly  as  St.  Agatha.  I  am  simply  advis- 
ing them  upon  a  point  of  policy,  things  being 
as  they  are.  And  I  say  that  the  average  man  is 
not  impressed  with  their  sacrifices  simply  because 
they  are  not  and  cannot  be  more  decisive  than 
the  sacrifices  which  the  average  man  himself 
would  make  for  mere  fun  if  he  were  drunk. 
Drunkards  would  interrupt  meetings  and  take 
the  consequences.  And  as  for  selling  a  teapot, 
it  is  an  act,  I  imagine,  in  which  any  properly  con- 
stituted drunkard  would  take  a  positive  pleasure. 
The  advertisement  is  not  good  enough ;  it  does 
not  tell.  If  I  were  really  martyred  for  an  opinion 
(which  is  more  improbable  than  words  can  say), 
it  would  certainly  only  be  for  one  or  two  of  my 
most  central  and  sacred  opinions.  I  might, 
perhaps,  be  shot  for  England,  but  certainly  not 
for  the  British  Empire.  I  might  conceivably  die 
for  political  freedom,  but  I  certainly  wouldn't 
I  113 


All  Things  Considered 

die  for  Free  Trade.  But  as  for  kicking  up  the 
particular  kind  of  shindy  that  the  SufTiagettes  are 
kicking  up,  I  would  as  soon  do  it  for  my  shallowest 
opinion  as  for  my  deepest  one.  It  never  could  be 
anything  worse  than  an  inconvenience ;  it  never 
could  be  anything  better  than  a  spree.  Hence 
the  British  public,  and  especially  the  working 
classes,  regard  the  whole  demonstration  with 
fundamental  indifference  ;  for,  while  it  is  a  demon- 
stration that  probably  is  adopted  from  the  most 
fanatical  motives,  it  is  a  demonstration  wliich 
might  be  adopted  from  the  most  frivolous. 


"4 


On  Political  Secrecy       ©        ®        © 

/"^ENERALLY,  instinctively,  in  the  absence  of 
^"^  any  special  reason,  humanity  hates  the  idea 
of  anything  being  hidden— that  is,  it  hates  the 
idea  of  anything  being  successfully  hidden.  Hide- 
and-seek  is  a  popular  pastime ;  but  it  assumes 
the  truth  of  the  text,  "Seek  and  ye  shall  find." 
Ordinary  mankind  (gigantic  and  unconquerable  in 
its  power  of  joy)  can  get  a  great  deal  of  pleasure 
out  of  a  game  called  "  hide  the  thimble,"  but  that 
is  only  because  it  is  really  a  game  of  "  see  the 
thimble."  Suppose  that  at  the  end  of  such  a 
game  the  thimble  had  not  been  found  at  all; 
suppose  its  place  was  unknown  for  ever :  the 
result  on  the  players  would  not  be  playful,  it 
would  be  tragic.  That  thimble  would  hag-ride 
all  their  dreams.  They  would  all  die  in  asylums. 
The  pleasure  is  all  in  the  poignant  moment  of 
passing  from  not  knowing  to  knowing.  Mystery 
stories  are  very  popular,  especially  when  sold  at 


All  Things   Considered 

sixpence ;  but  that  is  because  the  author  of  a 
mystery  story  reveals.  He  is  enjoyed  not  because 
he  creates  mystery,  but  because  he  destroys 
mystery.  Nobody  would  have  the  courage  to 
publish  a  detective-story  which  left  the  problem 
exactly  where  it  found  it.  That  would  rouse 
even  the  London  public  to  revolution.  No 
one  dare  publish  a  detective-story  that  did  not 
detect. 

There  are  three  broad  classes  of  the  special 
things  in  which  human  wisdom  does  permit 
privacy.  The  first  is  the  case  I  have  mentioned 
— that  of  hide-and-seek,  or  the  police  novel,  in 
which  it  permits  privacy  only  in  order  to  explode 
and  smash  privacy.  The  author  makes  first  a 
fastidious  secret  of  how  the  Bishop  was  murdered, 
only  in  order  that  he  may  at  last  declare,  as 
from  a  high  tower,  to  the  whole  democracy 
the  great  glad  news  that  he  was  murdered  by 
the  governess.  In  that  case,  ignorance  is  only 
valued  because  being  ignorant  is  the  best  and 
purest  preparation  for  receiving  the  horrible 
revelations  of  high  life.  Somewhat  in  the  same 
way  being  an  agnostic  is  the  best  and  purest 
preparation  for  receiving  the  happy  revelations 
of  St.  John. 

This  first  sort  of  secrecy  we  may  dismiss,  for 
its  whole  ultimate  object  is  not  to  keep  the 
Ii6 


On  Political  Secrecy 

secret,  but  to  tell  it.  Then  there  is  a  second 
and  far  more  important  class  of  things  which 
humanity  does  agree  to  hide.  They  are  so 
important  that  they  cannot  possibly  be  discussed 
here.  But  every  one  will  know  the  kind  of  things 
I  mean.  In  connection  with  these,  I  wish  to 
remark  that  though  they  are,  in  one  sense,  a 
secret,  they  are  also  always  a  "  secret  de  Poli- 
chinelle."  Upon  sex  and  such  matters  we  are 
in  a  human  freemasonry;  the  freemasonry  is 
disciplined,  but  the  freemasonry  is  free.  We  are 
asked  to  be  silent  about  these  things,  but  we  are 
not  asked  to  be  ignorant  about  them.  On  the 
contrary,  the  fundamental  human  argument  is 
entirely  the  other  way.  It  is  the  thing  most 
common  to  humanity  that  is  most  veiled  by 
humanity.  It  is  exactly  because  we  all  know 
that  it  is  there  that  we  need  not  say  that  it  is 
there. 

Then  there  is  a  third  class  of  things  on  which 
the  best  civilisation  does  permit  privacy,  does 
resent  all  inquiry  or  explanation.  This  is  in  the 
case  of  things  which  need  not  be  explained, 
because  they  cannot  be  explained,  things  too 
airy,  instinctive,  or  intangible — caprices,  sudden 
impulses,  and  the  more  innocent  kind  of  pre- 
judice. A  man  must  not  be  asked  why  he  is 
talkative  or  silent,  for  the  simple  reason  that  he 
117 


All   Things   Considered 

docs  not  know.  A  man  is  not  asked  (even  in 
Germany)  why  he  walks  slow  or  quick,  simply 
because  he  could  not  answer.  A  man  must  take 
his  own  road  through  a  wood,  and  make  his  own 
use  of  a  h'jliday.  And  the  reason  is  this :  not 
because  he  has  a  strong  reason,  but  actually 
because  he  has  a  weak  reason;  because  he  has 
a  slight  and  fleeting  feeling  about  the  matter 
which  he  could  not  explain  to  a  policeman,  which 
perhaps  tlie  very  appearance  of  a  policeman  out 
of  the  bushes  might  destroy.  He  must  act  on  the 
impulse,  because  the  impulse  is  unimportant,  and 
he  may  never  have  the  same  impulse  again.  If 
you  like  to  put  it  so  he  must  act  on  the  impulse 
because  the  impulse  is  not  worth  a  moment's 
thought.  All  these  fancies  men  feel  should  be 
private  ;  and  even  Fabians  have  never  proposed 
to  interfere  with  them. 

Now,  for  the  last  fortnight  the  newspapers  have 
been  full  of  very  varied  comments  upon  the 
problem  of  the  secrecy  of  certain  parts  of  our 
political  finance,  and  especially  of  the  problem 
of  the  party  funds.  Some  papers  have  failed 
entirely  to  understand  what  the  quarrel  is  about. 
They  have  urged  that  Irish  members  and  Labour 
members  are  also  under  the  shadow,  or,  as  some 
have  said,  even  more  under  it  The  ground  of 
this    frantic     statement    seems,     when     palier.lly 


On  Political  Secrecy 

considered,  to  be  simply  this :  that  Irish  and 
Labour  members  receive  money  for  what  they  do. 
All  persons,  as  far  as  I  know,  on  this  earth  receive 
money  for  what  they  do ;  the  only  difference  is 
that  some  people,  like  the  Irish  members,  do  it. 
I  cannot  imagine  that  any  human  being  could 
think  any  other  human  being  capable  of  main- 
taining the  proposition  that  men  ought  not  to 
receive  money.  The  simple  point  is  that,  as  we 
know  that  some  money  is  given  rightly  and  some 
wrongly,  an  elementary  common-sense  leads  us 
to  look  with  indifference  at  the  money  that  is 
given  in  the  middle  of  Ludgate  Circus,  and  to 
look  with  particular  suspicion  at  the  money  which 
a  man  will  not  give  unless  he  is  shut  up  in  a  box 
or  a  bathing-machine.  In  short,  it  is  too  silly 
to  suppose  that  anybody  could  ever  have  discussed 
the  desirability  of  funds.  The  only  thing  that 
even  idiots  could  ever  have  discussed  is  the  con- 
cealment of  funds.  Therefore,  the  whole  question 
that  we  have  to  consider  is  whether  the  conceal- 
ment of  political  money-transactions,  the  purchase 
of  peerages,  the  payment  of  election  expenses, 
is  a  kind  of  concealment  that  falls  under  any 
of  the  three  classes  I  have  mentioned  as  those  in 
which  human  custom  and  instinct  does  permit 
us  to  conceal.  I  have  suggested  three  kinds  of 
secrecy  which  are  human  and  defensible.  Can 
119 


All   Things  Considered 

this  institution  be  defended  by  means  of  any  of 
them  ? 

Now  the  question  is  whether  this  political 
secrecy  is  of  any  of  the  kinds  that  can  be  called 
legitimate.  We  have  roughly  divided  legitimate 
secrets  into  three  classes.  First  comes  the  secret 
that  is  only  kept  in  order  to  be  revealed,  as  in 
the  detective  stories  ;  secondly,  the  secret  which  is 
kept  because  everybody  knows  it,  as  in  sex ;  and 
third,  the  secret  which  is  kept  because  it  is  too 
delicate  and  vague  to  be  explained  at  all,  as  in 
the  choice  of  a  country  walk.  Do  any  of  these 
broad  human  divisions  cover  such  a  case  as  that 
of  secrecy  of  the  political  and  party  finances  ? 
It  would  be  absurd,  and  even  delightfully  absurd, 
to  pretend  that  any  of  them  did.  It  would  be 
a  wild  and  charming  fancy  to  suggest  that  our 
politicians  keep  political  secrets  only  that  they  may 
make  political  revelations.  A  modern  peer  only 
pretends  that  he  has  earned  his  peerage  in  order 
that  he  may  more  dramaucally  declare,  with  a 
scream  of  scorn  and  joy,  that  he  really  bought 
it.  The  Baronet  pretends  that  he  deserved  his 
title  only  in  order  to  make  more  exquisite  and 
startling  the  grand  historical  fact  that  he  did 
not  deserve  it.  Surely  this  sounds  improbable. 
Surely  all  our  statesmen  cannot  be  saving  them- 
selves   up    for    the    excitement    of  a   deaih-bed 

120 


On   Political  Secrecy 

repentance.  The  writer  of  detective  tales  makes 
a  man  a  duke  solely  in  order  to  blast  him 
with  a  charge  of  burglary.  But  surely  the 
Prime  Minister  does  not  make  a  man  a  duke 
solely  in  order  to  blast  him  with  a  charge  of 
bribery.  No ;  the  detective-tale  theory  of  the 
secrecy  of  political  funds  must  (wiih  a  sigh)  be 
given  up. 

Neither  can  we  say  that  the  thing  is  explained 
by  that  second  case  of  human  secrecy  which  is 
so  secret  that  it  is  hard  to  discuss  it  in  public. 
A  decency  is  preserved  about  certain  primary 
human  matters  precisely  because  every  one  knows 
all  about  them.  But  the  decency  touching  con- 
tributions, purchases,  and  peerages  is  not  kej)t 
up  because  most  ordinary  men  know  what  is 
happening ;  it  is  kept  up  precisely  because  most 
ordinary  men  do  not  know  what  is  happening. 
The  ordinary  curtain  of  decorum  covers  normal 
proceedings.  But  no  one  will  say  that  being 
bribed  is  a  normal  proceeding. 

And  if  we  apply  the  third  test  to  this  problem 
of  political  secrecy,  the  case  is  even  clearer  and 
even  more  funny.  Surely  no  one  will  say  that  the 
purchase  of  peerages  and  such  things  are  kept 
secret  because  they  are  so  light  and  impulsive 
and  unimportant  that  they  must  be  matters  of 
individual  fancy.     A  child  sees  a  flower  and  for 


All   Things   Considered 

the  first  time  feels  inclined  to  pick  it.  But  surely 
no  one  will  say  that  a  brewer  sees  a  coronet 
and  for  the  first  time  suddenly  thinks  that  he 
would  like  to  be  a  peer.  The  child's  impulse 
need  not  be  cxijlained  to  the  police,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  it  could  not  be  explained 
to  anybody.  But  does  any  one  believe  that 
the  laborious  political  ambitions  of  modern  com- 
mercial men  ever  have  this  airy  and  incom- 
municable character?  A  man  lying  on  the 
beach  may  throw  stones  into  the  sea  witliout 
any  particular  reason.  But  does  any  one  believe 
that  the  brewer  throws  bags  of  gold  into  the 
party  funds  without  any  particular  reason  ?  This 
theory  of  the  secrecy  of  political  money  must 
also  be  regretfully  abandoned ;  and  with  it 
the  two  other  possible  excuses  as  well.  This 
secrecy  is  one  which  cannot  be  justified  as  a 
sensational  joke  nor  as  a  common  human  free- 
masonry, nor  as  an  indescribable  personal  whim. 
Strangely  enough,  indeed,  it  violates  all  three 
conditions  and  classes  at  once.  It  is  not  hidden 
in  order  to  be  revealed  :  it  is  hidden  in  order 
to  be  hidden.  It  is  not  kept  secret  because  it 
is  a  common  secret  of  mankind,  but  because 
mankind  must  not  get  hold  of  it  And  it  is 
not  kept  secret  because  it  is  too  unimportant  to 
be  told,  but  because  it  is  much  too  important  to 

1Z2 


On  Political  Secrecy- 
bear  telling.  In  short,  the  thing  we  have  is  the 
real  and  perhaps  rare  political  phenomenon  of 
an  occult  governaient.  We  have  an  exoteric  and 
an  esoteric  doctrine.  England  is  really  ruled  by 
priestcraft,  but  not  by  priests.  We  have  in  this 
country  all  that  has  ever  been  alleged  against 
the  evil  side  of  religion ;  the  peculiar  class  with 
privileges,  the  sacred  words  that  are  unpronounce- 
able ;  the  important  things  known  only  to  the  few. 
In  fact  we  lack  nothing  except  the  religion. 


123 


Edward  VII.  and  Scotland        @        @ 

T  HAVE  received  a  serious,  and  to  me,  at  any 
rate,  an  impressive  remonstrance  from  the 
Scottish  Patriotic  Association.  It  appears  that  I 
recently  referred  to  Edward  VII.  of  Great  Britain 
and  Ireland,  King,  Defender  of  the  Faith,  under 
the  horrible  description  of  the  King  of  England. 
The  Scottish  Patriotic  Association  draws  my 
attention  to  the  fact  that  by  the  provisions  of  the 
Act  of  Union,  and  the  tradition  of  nationality,  the 
monarch  should  be  referred  to  as  the  King  of 
Britain.  The  blow  thus  struck  at  me  is  particularly 
wounding  because  it  is  particularly  unjust.  I  believe 
in  the  reality  of  the  independent  nationalities  under 
the  British  Crown  much  more  passionately  and 
positively  than  any  other  educated  Englishman  of 
my  acquaintance  believes  in  it.  I  am  quite  certain 
that  Scotland  is  a  nation ;  I  am  quite  certain  that 
nationality  is  the  key  of  Scotland  ;  I  am  quite 
certain  that  all  our  success  with  Scotland  has  been 
due  to  the  fact  that  we  have  in  spirit  treated  it 
125 


All  Things  Considered 

as  a  nation.  I  am  quite  certain  tliat  Ireland  is 
a  nation ;  I  am  quite  certain  that  nationality  is 
the  key  to  Ireland ;  I  am  quite  certain  that  all  our 
failure  in  Ireland  arose  from  the  fact  that  we 
would  not  in  spirit  treat  it  as  a  nation.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  find,  even  among  the  innumerable 
examples  that  exist,  a  stronger  example  of  the 
immensely  superior  importance  of  sentiment  to 
what  is  called  practicality  than  this  case  of  the 
two  sister  nations.  It  is  not  that  we  have  en- 
couraged a  Scotchman  to  be  rich ;  it  is  not  that 
we  have  encouraged  a  Scotchman  to  be  active; 
it  is  not  that  we  have  encouraged  a  Scotchman 
to  be  free.  It  is  that  we  have  quite  definitely 
encouraged  a  Scotchman  to  be  Scotch. 

A  vague,  but  vivid  impression  was  received 
from  all  our  writers  of  histor)',  philosophy,  and 
rhetoric  that  the  Scottish  element  was  something 
really  valuable  in  itself,  was  something  which  even 
Englishmen  were  forced  to  recognise  and  respect. 
If  we  ever  admitted  the  beauty  of  Ireland,  it 
was  as  something  which  might  be  loved  by  an 
Englishman,  but  which  could  hardly  be  respected 
even  by  an  Irishman.  A  Scotchman  might  be 
proud  of  Scotland ;  it  was  enough  for  an  Irishman 
that  he  could  be  fond  of  Ireland.  Our  success 
with  the  two  nations  has  been  exactly  propor- 
tioned to  our  encouragement  of  their  indepenilcnt 
126 


Edward  VII.  and  Scotland 

national  emotion;  the  one  that  we  would  not 
treat  nationally  has  alone  produced  Nationalists. 
The  one  nation  that  we  would  not  recognise  as 
a  nation  in  theory  is  the  one  that  we  have  been 
forced  to  recognise  as  a  nation  in  arms.  The 
Scottish  Patriotic  Association  has  no  need  to  draw 
my  attention  to  the  importance  of  the  separate 
national  sentiment  or  the  need  of  keeping  the 
Border  as  a  sacred  line.  The  case  is  quite  suffi- 
ciently proved  by  the  positive  history  of  Scotland. 
The  place  of  Scottish  loyalty  to  England  has  been 
taken  by  English  admiration  of  Scotland.  They 
do  not  need  to  envy  us  our  titular  leadership, 
when  we  seem  to  envy  them  their  separation. 

I  wish  to  make  very  clear  my  entire  sympathy 
with  the  national  sentiment  of  the  Scottish  Patriotic 
Association.  But  I  wish  also  to  make  clear  this 
very  enlightening  comparison  between  the  fate  of 
Scotch  and  of  Irish  patriotism.  In  life  it  is  always 
the  little  facts  that  express  the  large  emotions, 
and  if  the  English  once  respected  Ireland  as  they 
respect  Scotland,  it  would  come  out  in  a  hundred 
small  ways.  For  instance,  there  are  crack  regi- 
ments in  the  British  Army  which  wear  the  kilt — 
the  kilt  which,  as  Macaulay  says  with  perfect 
truth,  was  regarded  by  nine  Scotchmen  out  of 
ten  as  the  dress  of  a  thief.  The  Highland  officers 
carry  a  silver-hilted  version  of  the  old  barbarous 
127 


All   Thino^s   Considered 


& 


Gaelic  broadsword  with  a  basket-liilt,  which  split 
the  skulls  of  so  many  English  soldiers  at  Killie- 
crankie  and  Prestonpans.  When  you  have  a 
regiment  of  men  in  the  British  Army  carrying 
ornamental  silver  shillelaghs  you  will  have  done 
the  same  thing  for  Ireland,  and  not  before — or 
when  you  mention  Brian  Boru  with  the  same 
intonation  as  Bruce. 

Let  me  be  considered  therefore  to  have  made 
quite  clear  that  I  believe  with  a  quite  special 
intensity  in  the  independent  consideration  of  Scot- 
land and  Ireland  as  apart  from  England.  I  believe 
that,  in  the  proper  sense  of  the  words,  Scotland 
is  an  independent  nation,  even  if  Edward  VII. 
is  the  King  of  Scotland.  I  believe  that,  in  the 
proper  sense  of  words,  Ireland  is  an  independent 
nation,  even  if  Edward  VII.  is  King  of  Ireland. 
But  the  fact  is  that  I  have  an  even  bolder  and 
wilder  belief  than  either  of  these.  I  believe  that 
England  is  an  independent  nation.  I  believe  that 
England  also  has  its  independent  colour  and 
history,  and  meaning.  I  believe  that  England 
could  produce  costumes  quite  as  queer  as  the 
kilt ;  I  believe  that  England  has  heroes  fully  as 
untranslateable  as  Brian  Boru,  and  consequently 
I  believe  that  Edward  VII,  is,  among  his  innu- 
merable other  functions,  really  King  of  England. 
If  my  Scotch  friends  insist,  let  us  call  it  one  of 


Edward  VII.  and  Scotland 

his  quite  obscure,  unpopular,  and  minor  titles ; 
one  of  his  relaxations.  A  little  while  ago  he  was 
Duke  of  Cornwall ;  but  for  a  family  accident  he 
might  still  have  been  King  of  Hanover.  Nor  do 
I  think  that  we  should  blame  the  simple  Cornisli- 
men  if  they  spoke  of  him  in  a  rhetorical 
moment  by  his  Cornish  title,  nor  the  well-meaning 
Hanoverians  if  they  classed  him  with  Planoverian 
Princes. 

Now  it  so  happens  that  in  the  passage  com- 
plained of  I  said  the  King  of  England  merely 
because  I  meant  the  King  of  England.  I  was 
speaking  strictly  and  especially  of  English  Kings, 
of  Kings  in  the  tradition  of  the  old  Kings  of 
England!  I  wrote  as  an  English  nationalist  keenly 
conscious  of  the  sacred  boundary  of  the  Tweed 
that  keeps  (or  used  to  keep)  our  ancient  enemies 
at  bay.  I  wrote  as  an  English  nationalist  resolved 
for  one  wild  moment  to  throw  off  the  tyranny  of 
the  Scotch  and  Irish  who  govern  and  oppress  my 
country.  I  felt  that  England  was  at  least  spiritually 
guarded  against  these  surrounding  nationalities. 
I  dreamed  that  the  Tweed  was  guarded  by  the 
ghosts  of  Scropes  and  Percys ;  I  dreamed  that 
St.  George's  Channel  was  guarded  by  St.  George. 
And  in  this  insular  security  I  spoke  deliberately 
and  specifically  of  the  King  of  England,  of  the 
representative  of  the  Tudors  and  Plantagenets.  It 
K  129 


All   Things  Considered 

is  true  that  the  two  Kings  of  England  of  whom  I 
especially  spoke,  Charles  II.  and  George  III.,  had 
both  an  alien  origin,  not  very  recent  and  not  very 
remote.  Charles  II.  came  of  a  family  originally 
Scotch,  George  III.  came  of  a  family  originally 
German.  But  the  same,  so  far  as  that  goes,  could 
be  said  of  the  English  royal  houses  when  Eng- 
land stood  quite  alone.  The  Plantagenets  were 
originally  a  French  family.  The  Tudors  were 
originally  a  Welsh  family.  But  I  was  not  talk- 
ing of  the  amount  of  English  sentiment  in  the 
English  Kings.  I  was  talking  of  the  amount 
of  English  sentiment  in  the  English  treatment 
and  popularity  of  the  English  Kings.  With  that 
Ireland  and  Scotland  have  nothing  whatever 
to  do. 

Charles  II.  may,  for  all  I  know,  have  not  only 
been  King  of  Scotland ;  he  may,  by  virtue  of  his 
temper  and  ancestry,  have  been  a  Scotch  King  of 
Scotland.  There  was  something  Scotch  about  his 
combination  of  clear-headedness  with  sensuality. 
There  was  something  Scotch  about  his  combina- 
tion of  doing  what  he  liked  with  knowing  what 
he  was  doing.  But  I  was  not  talking  of  the 
personality  of  Charles,  which  may  have  been 
Scotch.  I  was  talking  of  the  popularity  of  Charles, 
which  was  certainly  English.  One  thing  is  quite 
certain  :  whether  or  no  he  ever  ceased  to  be  a 
130 


Edward  VII.   and  Scotland 

Scotch  man,  he  ceased  as  soon  as  he  conveniently 
could  to  be  a  Scotch  King.  He  had  actually  tried 
the  experiment  of  being  a  national  ruler  north  of 
the  Tweed,  and  his  people  liked  him  as  little  as 
he  liked  them.  Of  Presbyterianisra,  of  the  Scottish 
religion,  he  left  on  record  the  exquisitely  English 
judgment  that  it  was  "  no  religion  for  a  gentleman." 
His  popularity  then  was  purely  English  ;  his  royalty 
was  purely  English;  and  I  was  using  the  words 
with  the  utmost  narrowness  and  deliberation  when 
I  spoke  of  this  particular  popularity  and  royalty 
as  tlie  popularity  and  royalty  of  a  King  of  England. 
I  said  of  the  English  people  specially  that  they 
like  to  pick  up  the  King's  crown  when  he  has 
dropped  it.  I  do  not  feel  at  all  sure  that  this  does 
ajjply  to  the  Scotch  or  the  Irish.  I  think  that  the 
Irish  would  knock  his  crown  off  for  him.  I  think 
that  the  Scotch  would  keep  it  for  him  after  they 
had  picked  it  up. 

For  my  part,  I  should  be  inclined  to  adopt  quite 
the  opposite  method  of  asserting  nationality.  Why 
should  good  Scotch  nationalists  call  Edward  VH. 
the  King  of  Britain?  They  ought  to  call  him 
King  Edward  I.  of  Scotland.  What  is  Britain? 
Where  is  Britain  ?  There  is  no  such  place.  There 
never  was  a  nation  of  Britain;  there  never  was 
a  King  of  Britain  ;  unless  perhaps  Vortigern  or 
Uther  Pendragon  had  a  taste  for  the  title.  If 
131 


All  Thiiifrs  Considered 


wc  arc  to  develop  our  Monarcliy,  I  sliould  be 
altogether  in  favour  of  developing  it  along  the  line 
of  local  patriotism  and  of  local  proprietorship  in 
the  King.  I  think  that  the  Londoners  ought  to 
call  him  the  King  of  London,  and  the  Liverpudlians 
ought  to  call  him  the  King  of  Liverpool.  I  do 
not  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  the  people  of 
Birmingham  ought  to  call  Edward  VIL  the  King 
of  Ijirmingham  ;  for  that  would  be  high  treason 
to  a  holier  and  more  established  povk^er.  But  I 
think  we  might  read  in  the  papers;  "The  King 
of  Brighton  left  Brighton  at  half-past  two  this 
afternoon,"  and  then  immediately  afterwards,  "The 
King  of  Worthing  entered  Worthing  at  ten  minutes 
past  three."  Or,  "  The  people  of  Margate  bade  a 
reluctant  farewell  to  the  jiopular  King  of  ^Largate 
this  morning,"  and  then,  "  His  ]\Lnjesty  the  King 
of  Ramsgate  returned  to  his  countrj'  and  capital 
this  afternoon  after  his  long  sojourn  in  strange 
lands."  It  might  be  pointed  out  that  by  a  curious 
coincidence  the  departure  of  the  King  of  O.vford 
occurred  a  very  short  time  before  tlie  triumphal 
arrival  of  the  King  of  Reading,  I  cannot  imagine 
any  method  which  would  more  increase  the  kindly 
and  normal  relations  between  the  Sovereign  and 
his  people.  Nor  do  I  think  that  such  a  method 
would  be  in  any  sense  a  depreciation  of  the  royal 
dignity;  for,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  would  put  the 


Edward  VII.  and  Scotland 

King  upon  tlie  same  platform  witli  the  gods.  The 
saints,  the  most  exalted  of  human  figures,  were 
also  the  most  local.  It  was  exactly  the  men  whom 
we  most  easily  connected  with  heaven  whom  we 
also  most  easily  connected  with  earth. 


»33 


Thoughts  around  Koepenick         ©        @ 

A  FAMOUS  and  epigrammatic  author  said  that 
life  copied  literature ;  it  seems  clear  that  life 
really  caricatures  it.  I  suggested  recently  that  the 
Germans  submitted  to,  and  even  admired,  a  solemn 
and  theatrical  assertion  of  authority.  A  few  hours 
after  I  had  sent  up  my  "  copy,"  I  saw  the  first 
announcement  of  the  affair  of  the  comic  Captain 
at  Koepenick.  The  most  absurd  part  of  tliis 
absurd  fraud  (at  least,  to  English  eyes)  is  one 
which,  oddly  enough,  has  received  comparatively 
litde  comment.  I  mean  the  point  at  which  the 
Mayor  asked  for  a  warrant,  and  the  Captain 
pointed  to  the  bayonets  of  his  soldiery  and  paid. 
"These  are  my  authority."  One  would  have 
thought  any  one  would  have  known  that  no  soldier 
would  talk  like  that.  The  dupes  were  blamed 
for  not  knowing  that  the  man  v/ore  the  wrong 
cap  or  the  wrong  sash,  or  had  his  sword  buckled 
on  the  wrong  way ;  but  these  are  technicalities 
which  they  might  surely  be  excused  for  not 
135 


All  Things  Considered 

knowing.  I  certainly  should  not  know  if  a 
soldier's  sash  were  on  inside  out  or  his  cap  on 
behind  before.  But  I  should  know  uncommonly 
well  that  genuine  i)rofessional  soldiers  do  not  talk 
like  Adelphi  villains  and  utter  theatrical  epigrams 
in  praise  of  abstract  violence. 

We  can  see  this  more  clearly,  perhaps,  if  we 
suppose  it  to  be  the  case  of  any  other  dignified 
and  clearly  distinguishable  profession.  Supi)Ose 
a  Bishop  called  upon  me.  My  great  modesty 
and  my  rather  distant  reverence  for  the  higher 
clergy  might  lead  me  certainly  to  a  strong  sus- 
picion that  any  Bishop  who  called  on  me  was  a 
bogus  Bishop.  But  if  I  wished  to  test  his  genuine- 
ness I  should  not  dream  of  attempting  to  do  so  by 
examining  the  shape  of  his  apron  or  the  way  his 
gaiters  were  done  up.  I  have  not  the  remotest 
idea  of  the  way  his  gaiters  ought  to  be  done  up, 
A  very  vague  approximation  to  an  apron  would 
probably  take  me  in  ;  and  if  he  behaved  like  an 
approximately  Christian  gentleman  he  would  be 
safe  enough  from  my  detection.  But  suppose  the 
Bishop,  the  moment  he  entered  the  room,  fell  on 
his  knees  on  the  mat,  clasped  his  hands,  and 
poured  out  a  flood  of  passionate  and  somewhat 
hysterical  extempore  prayer,  I  should  say  at  once 
and  without  the  smallest  hesitation,  "  Whatever 
else  this  man  is,  he  is  not  an  elderly  and  wealthy 
136 


Thoughts  around  Koepenick 

cleric  of  the  Church  of  England.  They  don't  do 
such  things."  Or  suppose  a  man  came  to  me 
pretending  to  be  a  qualified  doctor,  and  flourished 
a  stethoscope,  or  what  he  said  was  a  stethoscope. 
I  am  glad  to  say  that  I  have  not  even  tlie  remotest 
notion  of  what  a  stethoscope  looks  like  ;  so  that  if 
he  flourished  a  musical-box  or  a  coff"ee-mill  it 
would  be  all  one  to  me.  But  I  do  think  that  I  am 
not  exaggerating  my  own  sagacity  if  I  say  that  I 
should  begin  to  suspect  the  doctor  if  on  entering 
my  room  he  flung  his  legs  and  arms  about, 
crying  wildly,  "  Health  I  Health  !  priceless  gift  of 
Nature  1  I  possess  it !  I  overflow  with  it !  I 
yearn  to  impart  it !  Oh,  the  sacred  rapture  of 
imparting  health  I  "  In  that  case  I  should  suspect 
him  of  being  rather  in  a  position  to  receive  than 
to  offer  medical  superintendence. 

Now,  it  is  no  exaggeration  at  all  to  say  that 
any  one  who  has  ever  known  any  soldiers 
(I  can  only  answer  for  English  and  Irish  and 
Scotch  soldiers)  would  find  it  just  as  easy  to 
believe  that  a  real  Bishop  would  grovel  on  the 
carpet  in  a  religious  ecstasy,  or  that  a  real  doctor 
would  dance  about  the  drawing-room  to  show  the 
invigorating  effects  of  his  own  medicine,  as  to 
believe  that  a  soldier,  when  asked  for  his  authority, 
would  point  to  a  lot  of  shining  weapons  and 
declare  symbolically  that  might  was  right.  Of 
137 


All  Things  Considered 

course,  a  real  soldier  would  go  rather  red  in  the 
fiice  and  huskily  repeat  the  proper  formula, 
whatever  it  was,  as  that  he  came  in  the  King's 
name. 

Soldiers  have  many  faults,  but  they  have  one 
redeeming  merit :  they  are  never  worshippers  of 
force.  Soldiers  more  than  any  other  men  are 
taught  severely  and  systematically  that  might  is 
not  right.  The  fact  is  obvious.  The  might  is  in 
the  hundred  men  who  obey.  The  right  (or  what  is 
held  to  be  right)  is  in  the  one  man  who  commands 
them.  They  learn  to  obey  symbols,  arbitrary 
things,  stripes  on  an  arm,  buttons  on  a  coat,  a 
title,  a  flag.  These  may  be  artificial  things ;  they 
may  be  unreasonable  things ;  they  may,  if  you 
will,  be  wicked  things;  but  they  are  weak  things. 
They  are  not  Force,  and  they  do  not  look  like 
Force.  They  are  parts  of  an  idea :  of  the  idea  of 
discipline ;  if  you  will,  of  the  idea  of  tyranny ; 
but  still  an  idea.  No  soldier  could  possibly  say 
that  his  own  bayonets  were  his  authority.  No 
soldier  could  possibly  say  that  he  came  m  the 
name  of  his  own  bayonets.  It  would  be  as  absurd 
as  if  a  postman  said  that  he  came  inside  his  bag. 
I  do  not,  as  I  have  said,  underrate  the  evils  that 
really  do  arise  from  militarism  and  the  military 
ethic.  It  tends  to  give  people  wooden  faces  and 
sometimes  wooden  heads.  It  tends  morcuvcr 
13S 


Thoughts  around  Koepenick 

(both  through  its  spcciaHsation  and  through  its 
constant  obedience)  to  a  certain  loss  of  real  inde- 
pendence and  strength  of  character.  This  has 
ahiiost  always  been  found  when  people  made  the 
mistake  of  turning  the  soldier  into  a  statesman, 
under  the  mistaken  impression  that  he  was  a 
strong  man.  The  Duke  of  Wellington,  for  instance, 
was  a  strong  soldier  and  therefore  a  weak  states- 
man. But  the  soldier  is  always,  by  the  nature  of 
things,  loyal  to  something.  And  as  long  as  one  is 
loyal  to  something  one  can  never  be  a  worshipper 
of  mere  force.  For  mere  force,  violence  in  the 
abstract,  is  the  enemy  of  anything  we  love.  To 
love  anything  is  to  see  it  at  once  under  lowering 
skies  of  danger.  Loyalty  implies  loyalty  in  mis- 
fortune ;  and  when  a  soldier  has  accepted  any 
nation's  uniform  he  has  already  accepted  its 
defeat. 

Nevertheless,  it  does  appear  to  be  possible  in 
Germany  for  a  man  to  point  to  fixed  bayonets  and 
say,  "  These  are  my  authority,"  and  yet  to  con- 
vince ordinarily  sane  men  that  he  is  a  soldier.  If 
this  is  so,  it  does  really  seem  to  point  to  some 
habit  of  high-falutin'  in  the  German  nation,  such  as 
that  of  which  I  spoke  previously.  It  almost  looks 
as  if  the  advisers,  and  even  the  officials,  of  the 
German  Army  had  become  infected  in  some 
degree  with  the  false  and  feeble  doctrine  that 
139 


All  Thinn-s   Considered 


might  is  right.  As  this  doctrine  is  invariably 
preached  by  physical  weaklings  like  Nietzsche  it 
is  a  very  serious  thing  even  to  entertain  the 
supposition  that  it  is  affecting  men  who  have 
really  to  do  military  work.  It  would  be  the  end 
of  German  soldiers  to  be  affected  by  German 
philosophy.  Energetic  people  use  energy  as  a 
means,  but  only  very  tired  people  ever  use  energy 
as  a  reason.  Athletes  go  in  for  games,  because 
athletes  desire  glory.  Invalids  go  in  for  calis- 
thenics; for  invalids  (alone  of  all  human  beings) 
desire  strength.  So  long  as  the  Get  man  Army 
points  to  its  heraldic  eagle  and  says,  "  I  come  in 
the  name  of  this  fierce  but  fabulous  animal,"  the 
German  Army  will  be  all  right.  If  ever  it  says, 
"  I  come  in  the  name  of  bayonets,"  the  bayonets 
will  break  like  glass,  for  only  the  weak  exhibit 
strength  without  an  aim. 

At  the  same  time,  as  I  said  before,  do  not  let  us 
forget  our  own  faults.  Do  not  let  us  forget  them 
any  the  more  easily  because  they  are  the  opposite 
to  the  German  faults.  Modern  England  is  too 
prone  to  present  the  spectacle  of  a  person  who  is 
enormously  delighted  because  he  has  not  got  the 
contrary  disadvantages  to  his  own.  The  English- 
man is  always  saying  "  My  house  is  not  damp  " 
at  the  moment  when  his  house  is  on  fire.  The 
Englishman  is  always  saying,  "  I  have  thrown  off 
140 


Thoughts  around  Koepenick 

all  traces  of  anosmia "  in  the  middle  of  a  fit  of 
apoplexy.  Let  us  always  remember  that  if  an 
Englishman  wants  to  swindle  English  people,  he 
does  not  dress  up  in  the  uniform  of  a  soldier.  If 
an  Englishman  wants  to  swindle  English  people  he 
would  as  soon  think  of  dressing  up  in  the  uniform 
of  a  messenger  boy.  Everything  in  England  is 
done  unofficially,  casually,  by  conversations  and 
cliques.  The  one  Parliament  that  really  does  rule 
England  is  a  secret  Parliament ;  the  debates  of 
which  must  not  be  published — the  Cabinet.  The 
debates  of  the  Commons  are  sometimes  important ; 
but  only  the  debates  in  the  Lobby,  never  the-' 
debates  in  the  House.  Journalists  do  control 
public  opinion ;  but  it  is  not  controlled  by  the 
arguments  they  publish — it  is  controlled  by  the 
arguments  between  the  editor  and  sub-editor," 
which  they  do  not  publish.  This  casualness 
is  our  English  vice.  It  is  at  once  casual  and 
secret.  Our  public  life  is  conducted  privately. 
Hence  it  follows  that  if  an  English  swindler 
wished  to  impress  us,  the  last  thing  he  would 
think  of  doing  would  be  to  put  on  a  uniform. 
He  would  put  on  a  polite  slouching  air  and  a 
careless,  expensive  suit  of  clothes  ;  he  would 
stroll  up  to  the  Mayor,  be  so  awfully  sorry  to 
disturb  him,  find  he  had  forgotten  his  card-case, 
mention,  as  if  he  were  ashamed  of  it,  that  he  was 
141 


All   Things  Considered 

the  Duke  of  Mercia,  and  carry  the  whole  thing 
through  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  could  get  two 
hundred  witnesses  and  two  thousand  retainers,  but 
who  was  too  tired  to  call  any  of  them.  And  if 
he  did  it  very  wcl!  I  strongly  suspect  that  he 
would  be  as  successful  as  the  indefensible  Captain 
at  Koepcnick. 

Our  tendency  for  many  centuries  past  has  been, 
not  so  much  towards  creating  an  aristocracy 
(which  may  or  may  not  be  a  good  thing  in 
itself),  as  towards  substituting  an  aristocracy  for 
everything  else.  In  England  we  have  an  aristo- 
cracy instead  of  a  rcli^^non.  The  nol)ility  are  to 
the  English  poor  what  the  saints  and  the  fairies 
are  to  the  Irish  poor,  what  the  large  devil  with 
a  black  face  was  to  the  Scotch  poor — the  poetry 
of  life.  In  the  same  way  in  England  we  have  an 
aristocracy  instead  of  a  Government.  We  rely  on 
a  certain  good  humour  and  education  in  tlic 
upper  class  to  interpret  to  us  our  contradictory 
Constitution.  No  educated  man  born  of  woman 
will  be  quite  so  absurd  as  the  system  that  he  has 
to  administer.  In  short,  we  do  not  get  good  laws 
to  restrain  bad  people.  We  get  good  people  to 
restrain  bad  laws.  And  last  of  all  we  in  iMigland 
have  an  aristocracy  instead  of  an  Army.  We  have 
an  Army  of  which  the  ofliccrs  are  proud  of  tlicir 
families  and  ashamed  of  tlicir  uniforms.  If  I  were 
142 


Thoughts  around  Koepenick 

a  King  of  any  country  whatever,  and  one  of  my 
ofllcers  were  ashamed  of  my  uniform,  I  should  be 
ashamed  of  my  officer.  Beware,  then,  of  the 
really  well-bred  and  apologetic  gentleman  whose 
clothes  are  at  once  quiet  and  fashionable,  whose 
manner  is  at  once  diffident  and  frank.  Beware 
how  you  admit  him  into  your  domestic  secrets,  for 
he  mny  be  a  bogus  Earl.  Or,  worse  still,  a  real 
one. 


X',", 


The  Boy       ©        ®        ©  ©        @ 

T  HAVE  no  sympathy  with  international  aggres- 
sion  when  it  is  taken  seriously,  but  I  have  a 
certain  dark  and  wild  sympathy  with  it  when  it 
is  quite  absurd.  Raids  are  all  wrong  as  practical 
politics,  but  they  are  human  and  imaginable  as 
practical  jokes.  In  fact,  almost  any  act  of  ragging 
or  violence  can  be  forgiven  on  this  strict  condition 
— that  it  is  of  no  use  at  all  to  anybody.  If  the 
aggressor  gets  anything  out  of  it,  then  it  is  quite 
unpardonable.  It  is  damned  by  the  least  hint  of 
utility  or  profit.  A  'man  of  spirit  and  breeding 
may  brawl,  but  he  does  not  steal.  A  gentleman 
knocks  off  his  friend's  hat;  but  he  does  not  annex 
his  friend's  hat.  For  this  reason  (as  Mr.  Belloc 
has  pointed  out  somewhere),  the  very  militant 
French  people  have  always  returned  after  their 
immense  raids — the  raids  of  Godfrey  the  Crusader, 
the  raids  of  Napoleon ;  *'  they  are  sucked  back, 
having  accomplished  nothing  but  an  epic." 

Sometimes  I  see  small  fragments  of  information 
L  145 


All   Things   Considered 

in  llic  nc\vsi)apcrs  \\liich  niako  my  licarl  leap  wiih 
an  irrational  iiatriolic  sympathy.  I  have  had  the 
mi^^fortune  to  be  left  comparatively  cold  by  many 
of  the  cnterjirises  and  ])roclamations  of  my  country 
in  recent  times.  But  the  other  day  I  found  in  the 
Tribune  the  following  paragraph,  which  I  may  be 
permitted  to  set  down  as  an  example  of  the  kind 
of  international  outrage  with  wliich  I  have  by  far 
the  most  instinctive  sympatliy.  There  is  some- 
thing attractive,  loo,  in  the  austere  simplicity 
with  which  the  affair  is  set  forth — 

"  Geneva,  Oct.  31. 
"  The  English  schoolboy  Allen,  who  was  arrested 
at  Lausanne  railway  station  on  Saturday,  for  having 
painted  red  the  statue  of  General  Jomini  of  Paycrne, 
was  liberated  yesterday,  after  paying  a  fine  of  £z\. 
Allen  has  proceeded  to  Germany,  where  he  will 
continue  his  studies.  The  people  of  I'ayerne  are 
indignant,  and  clamoured  for  his  detention  in  prison." 

Now  I  have  no  doubt  that  ethics  and  social 
necessity  require  a  contrary  attitude,  but  I  will 
freely  confess  that  my  first  emotions  on  reading 
of  this  exploit  were  those  of  profound  and 
elemental  pleasure.  There  is  something  so  large 
and  simple  about  the  operation  of  painting  a 
whole  stone  General  a  bright  red.  Of  course 
I  can  understand  that  the  people  of  Payerne 
were  indignant.  They  had  passed  to  their  homes 
146 


The  Boy 

at  twilight  through  the  streets  of  tliat  beautiful 
city  (or  is  it  a  province  ?),  and  they  had  seen 
against  the  silver  ending  of  the  sunset  the  grand 
grey  figure  of  the  hero  of  that  land  remaining 
to  guard  the  town  under  the  stars.  It  certainly 
must  have  been  a  shock  to  come  out  in  the 
broad  white  morning  and  find  a  large  vermilion 
General  staring  under  the  staring  sun.  I  do  not 
blame  them  at  all  for  clamouring  for  the  school- 
boy's detention  in  prison ;  I  dare  say  a  little 
detention  in  prison  would  do  him  no  harm. 
Still,  I  think  the  immense  act  has  something 
about  it  human  and  excusable ;  and  when  I 
endeavour  to  analyse  the  reason  of  this  feeling 
I  find  it  to  lie,  not  in  the  fact  that  the  thing 
was  big  or  bold  or  successful,  but  in  the  fact 
that  the  thing  was  perfectly  useless  to  everybody, 
including  the  person  who  did  it.  The  raid  ends 
in  itself;  and  so  Master  Allen  is  sucked  back 
again,  having  accomplished  nothing  but  an  epic. 

There  is  one  thing  which,  in  the  presence  of 
average  modern  journalism,  is  perhaps  worth 
saying  in  connection  with  such  an  idle  matter 
as  this.  The  morals  of  a  matter  like  this  are 
exactly  like  the  morals  of  anything  else;  they 
are  concerned  with  mutual  contract,  or  with  the 
rights  of  independent  human  lives.  But  the  whole 
modern  world,  or  at  any  rate  the  whole  modern 
147 


/ 


All   Things   Considered 

Press,  has  a  perpetual  and  consumino;  terror  of 
plain  morals.  Men  always  attempt  to  avoid 
condemning  a  thing  upon  merely  moral  grounds. 
If  I  beat  my  grandmother  to  death  to-morrow  in 
the  middle  of  Battersea  Park,  you  may  be  perfectly 
certain  that  people  will  say  everything  about  it 
except  the  simple  and  fairly  obvious  fact  that 
it  is  wrong.  Some  will  call  it  insane  ;  that  is, 
will  accuse  it  of  a  deficiency  of  intelligence. 
This  is  not  necessarily  true  at  all.  You  could  not 
tell  whether  the  act  was  unintelligent  or  not  unless 
you  knew  my  grandmother.  Some  will  call  it 
vulgar,  disgusting,  and  the  rest  of  it;  that  is, 
they  will  accuse  it  of  a  lack  of  manners.  Perhaps 
it  does  show  a  lack  of  manners ;  but  this  is  scarcely 
its  most  serious  disadvantage.  Others  will  talk 
about  the  loathsome  spectacle  and  the  revolting 
scene ;  that  is,  they  will  accuse  it  of  a  deficiency 
of  art,  or  aesthetic  beauty.  This  again  depends 
on  the  circumstances  :  in  order  to  be  quite  certain 
tliat  the  appearance  of  the  old  lady  has  definitely 
deteriorated  under  the  process  of  being  beaten 
to  death,  it  is  necessary  for  the  philosophical 
critic  to  be  quite  certain  how  ugly  she  was  before. 
Another  school  of  thinkers  will  say  that  the 
action  is  lacking  in  efficiency :  that  it  is  an 
uneconomic  waste  of  a  good  grandmother.  But 
that  could  only  depend  on  the  value,  which  is 
148 


The  Boy 

again  an  individual  matter.  The  only  real  {  oint 
that  is  worth  mentioning  is  that  the  action  is 
wicked,  because  your  grandmother  has  a  right 
not  to  be  beaten  to  deatli.  But  of  this  simple 
moral  explanation  modern  journalism  has,  as  I 
say,  a  standing  fear.  It  will  call  the  action  any- 
thing else — mad,  bestial,  vulgar,  idiotic,  rather 
than  call  it  sinful. 

One  example  can  be  found  in  such  cases  as  that 
of  the  prank  of  the  boy  and  the  statue.  When 
some  trick  of  this  sort  is  played,  the  newspapers 
opposed  to  it  always  describe  it  as  "a  senseless 
joke."  What  is  the  good  of  saying  that  ?  Every 
joke  is  a  senseless  joke.  A  joke  is  by  its  nature 
a  protest  against  sense.  It  is  no  good  attacking 
nonsense  for  being  successfully  nonsensical.  Of 
course  it  is  nonsensical  to  paint  a  celebrated 
Italian  General  a  bright  red  ;  it  is  as  nonsensical 
as  "Alice  in  Wonderland."  It  is  also,  in  my 
opinion,  very  nearly  as  funny.  But  the  real 
answer  to  the  affair  is  not  to  say  that  it  is  non- 
sensical or  even  to  say  that  it  is  not  funny,  but 
to  point  out  that  it  is  wrong  to  spoil  statues 
which  belong  to  other  people.  If  the  modern 
world  will  not  insist  on  having  some  sharp  and 
definite  moral  law,  capable  of  resisting  the  counter- 
attractions  of  art  and  humour,  the  modern  world 
will  simply  be  given  over  as  a  spoil  to  anybody 
149 


All  Things  Considered 

who  can  manage  to  do  a  nasty  thiiv^  in  a  nice 
way.  Every  murderer  who  can  murtlcr  enter- 
tainingly will  be  allowed  to  murder.  Every 
burglar  who  burgles  in  really  humorous  altitudes 
will  burgle  as  much  as  he  likes. 

There  is  another  case  of  the  thing  that  I  mean. 
Why  on  earth  do  the  newspapers,  in  describing 
a  dynamite  outrage  or  any  other  political  assassi- 
nation, call  it  a  "  dastardly  outrage  "  or  a  cowardly 
outrage?  It  is  perfectly  evident  that  it  is  not 
dastardly  in  the  least.  It  is  perfectly  evident 
that  it  is  about  as  cowardly  as  the  Christians 
going  to  the  lions.  The  man  who  does  it  exposes 
himself  to  the  chance  of  being  torn  in  pieces 
by  two  tliousand  people.  ^Vhat  the  thing  is,  is 
not  cowardly,  but  profoundly  and  detestably 
wicked.  The  man  who  does  it  is  very  infamous 
and  very  brave.  But,  again,  the  explanation  is 
that  our  modern  Press  would  rather  appeal  to 
physical  arrogance,  or  to  anytluiig,  rather  than 
appeal  to  right  and  wrong. 

In  most  of  the  matters  of  modern  England, 
the  real  difficulty  is  that  there  is  a  negative  re- 
volution without  a  positive  revolution.  Positive 
aristocracy  is  breaking  up  without  any  particular 
appearance  of  positive  democracy  taking  its  place. 
The  polished  class  is  becoming  less  polished  with- 
out becoming  less  of  a  class;  the  nobleman  who 
ISO 


The  Boy 

becomes  a  guinea-pig  keeps  all  his  privileges  but 
loses  some  of  his  tradition  ;  he  becomes  less  of 
a  gentleman  without  becoming  less  of  a  noble- 
man. In  the  same  way  (until  some  recent  and 
happy  revivals)  it  seemed  highly  probable  that 
the  Church  of  England  would  cease  to  be  a 
religion  long  before  it  had  ceased  to  be  a  Church. 
And  in  the  same  way,  the  vulgarisation  of  the 
old,  simple  middle  class  does  not  even  have  the 
advantage  of  doing  away  with  class  distinctions  ; 
the  vulgar  man  is  always  the  most  distinguished, 
for  the  very  desire  to  be  distinguished  is  vulgar. 

At  the  same  time,  it  must  be  remembered  that 
when  a  class  has  a  morality  it  does  not  follow  that 
it  is  an  adequate  morality.  The  middle-class 
ethic  was  inadequate  for  some  purposes ;  so  is 
the  public-school  ethic,  the  ethic  of  the  upper 
classes.  On  this  last  matter  of  the  public  schools 
Dr.  Spenser,  the  Head  Master  of  University 
College  School,  has  lately  made  some  valuable 
observations.  But  even  he,  I  think,  overstates 
the  claim  of  the  public  schools.  "  The  strong 
point  of  the  English  public  schools,"  he  says, 
"  has  always  lain  in  their  efficiency  as  agencies 
for  the  formation  of  character  and  for  the 
inculcation  of  the  great  notion  of  obligation  which 
distinguishes  a  gentleman.  On  the  physical  and 
moral  sides  the  public-school  men  of  England 
151 


1/ 


All  Things  Considered 

arc,  I  believe,  unequalled."  And  he  goes  on  to 
say  that  it  is  on  the  mental  side  that  tliey  are 
defective.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  public- 
school  training  is  in  the  strict  sense  defective 
upon  the  moral  side  also;  it  leaves  out  about 
half  of  morality.  Its  just  claim  is  that,  like  tlie 
old  middle  class  (and  the  Zulus),  it  trains  some 
virtues  and  therefore  suits  some  people  for  some 
situations.  Put  an  old  English  merchant  to  serve 
in  an  army  and  he  would  have  been  irritated  and 
clumsy.  Put  the  men  from  English  public  schools 
to  rule  Ireland,  and  they  make  the  greatest  hash 
in  human  history. 

Touching  the  morality  of  the  public  schools, 
I  will  take  one  point  only,  which  is  enough  to 
prove  the  case.  People  have  got  into  their  heads 
an  extraordinary  idea  that  English  public  school- 
boys and  English  youth  generally  are  taught  to 
tell  the  truth.  They  are  taught  absolutely  nothing 
of  the  kind.  At  no  English  public  school  is  it 
even  suggested,  except  by  accident,  that  it  is  a 
man's  duty  to  tell  the  truth.  What  is  suggested 
is  something  entirely  different :  that  it  is  a  man's 
duty  not  to  tell  lies.  So  completely  does  this 
mistake  soak  through  all  civilisation  that  we  hardly 
ever  think  even  of  the  difference  between  the  two 
things.  When  we  say  to  a  child,  "You  must  tell 
the  truth,"  we  do  merely  mean  that  he  must  refrain 
152 


The  Boy 

from  verbal  inaccuracies.  But  the  thing  we  never 
teach  at  all  is  the  general  duty  of  telling  the  truth, 
of  giving  a  complete  and  fair  picture  of  anything 
we  are  talking  about,  of  not  misrepresenting, 
not  evading,  not  suppressing,  not  using  plausible 
arguments  that  we  know  to  be  unfair,  not  selecting 
unscrupulously  to  prove  an  ex  parte  case,  not 
telling  all  the  nice  stories  about  the  Scotch,  and 
all  the  nasty  stories  about  the  Irish,  not  pretending 
to  be  disinterested  when  you  are  really  angry,  not 
pretending  to  be  angry  when  you  are  really  only 
avaricious.  The  one  thing  that  is  never  taught 
by  any  chance  in  the  atmosphere  of  public  schools 
is  exactly  that — that  there  is  a  whole  truth  of 
things,  and  that  in  knowing  it  and  speaking  it 
we  are  happy. 

If  any  one  has  the  smallest  doubt  of  this  neglect 
of  truth  in  public  schools  he  can  kill  his  doubt 
with  one  plain  question.  Can  any  one  on  earth 
believe  that  if  the  seeing  and  telling  of  the  whole 
truth  were  really  one  of  the  ideals  of  the  English 
governing  class,  there  could  conceivably  exist 
such  a  thing  as  the  English  party  system  ?  Why, 
the  English  party  system  is  founded  upon  the 
principle  that  telling  the  whole  truth  does  not 
matter.  It  is  founded  upon  the  principle  that 
half  a  truth  is  better  than  no  politics.  Our  system 
deliberately  turns  a  crowd  of  men  who  might 
153 


All  Things  Considered 

be  impartial  into  irrational  partisans.  It  teaches 
some  of  them  to  tell  lies  and  all  of  them  to 
believe  lies.  It  gives  every  man  an  arbitrary 
brief  that  he  has  to  work  up  as  best  he  may 
and  defend  as  best  he  can.  It  turns  a  room 
full  of  citizens  in<o  a  room  full  of  barristers. 
I  know  that  it  has  many  charms  and  virtues, 
fighting  and  good-fellowship  ;  it  has  all  the  charms 
and  virtues  of  a  game.  I  only  say  that  it  would 
be  a  stark  impossibility  in  a  nation  which  believed 
in  telling  the  truili. 


»54 


Limericks  and  Counsels  of  Perfection 

T  T  is  customary  to  remark  that  modern  problems 
"  -^  cannot  easily  be  attacked  because  they  are 
so  complex.  In  many  cases  I  believe  it  is  really 
because  they  are  so  simple.  Nobody  would 
believe  in  such  simplicity  of  scoundrelism  even 
if  it  were  pointed  out.  People  would  say  that 
the  truth  was  a  charge  of  mere  melodramatic 
villainy;  forgetting  that  nearly  all  villains  really 
are  melodramatic.  Thus,  for  instance,  we  say  that 
some  good  measures  are  frustrated  or  some  bad 
officials  kept  in  power  by  the  press  and  confusion 
of  public  business ;  whereas  very  often  the  reason 
is  simple  healthy  human  bribery.  And  thus  espe- 
cially we  say  that  the  Yellow  Press  is  exaggerative, 
over-emotional,  illiterate,  and  anarchical,  and  a 
hundred  other  long  words ;  whereas  the  only 
objection  to  it  is  that  it  tells  lies.  We  waste  our 
fine  intellects  in  finding  exquisite  phraseology  to 
fit  a  man,  when  in  a  well-ordered  society  we 
ought  to  be  finding  handcuffs  to  fit  him. 
155 


All  Things  Considered 

This  criticism  of  the  modern  type  of  righteous 
indignation  must  have  come  into  many  people's 
minds,  I  think,  in  reading  Dr.  Horton's  eloquent 
expressions  of  disgust  at  the  "  corrupt  Press," 
especially  in  connection  with  the  Limerick  craze. 
Upon  the  Limerick  craze  itself,  I  fear  Dr.  Horton 
will  not  have  much  effect ;  such  fads  perish  before 
one  has  had  time  to  kill  them.  But  Dr.  Horton's 
protest  may  really  do  good  if  it  enables  us  to 
come  to  some  clear  understanding  about  what  is 
really  wrong  with  the  popular  Press,  and  which 
means  it  might  be  useful  and  which  permissible 
to  use  for  its  reform.  We  do  not  want  a  censor- 
ship of  the  Press  ;  but  we  are  long  past  talking 
about  that.  At  present  it  is  not  we  that  silence 
the  Press ;  it  is  the  Press  that  silences  us.  It  is 
not  a  case  of  the  Commonwealth  settling  how 
much  the  editors  shall  say;  it  is  a  case  of  the 
editors  settling  how  much  the  Commonwealth 
shall  know.  If  we  attack  the  Press  we  shall  be 
rebelling,  not  repressing.     But  shall  we  attack  it  ? 

Now  it  is  just  here  that  the  chief  difliculty 
occurs.  It  arises  from  the  very  rarity  and  recti- 
tude of  those  minds  which  commonly  inaugurate 
such  crusades.  I  have  the  warmest  respect  for 
Dr.  Horton's  thirst  after  righteousness;  but  it  has 
always  seemed  to  me  that  his  righteousness  would 
be  more  effective  without  his  refiiieivicnt.  The 
156 


Limericks  and  Counsels  of  Perfection 

cTurse  of  the  Nonconformists  is  their  universal 
refinement.  They  dimly  connect  being  good  with 
being  delicate,  and  even  dapper  ;  with  not  being 
grotesque  or  loud  or  violent ;  with  not  sitting 
down  on  one's  hat.  Now  it  is  always  a  pleasure 
to  be  loud  and  violent,  and  sometimes  it  is  a 
duty.  Certainly  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  sin  ; 
a  man  can  be  loudly  and  violently  virtuous — nay, 
he  can  be  loudly  and  violently  saintly,  though  that 
is  not  the  type  of  saintliness  that  we  recognize 
in  Dr.  Horton.  And  as  for  sitting  on  one's  hat, 
if  it  is  done  for  any  sublime  object  (as,  for  instance, 
to  amuse  the  children),  it  is  obviously  an  act  of 
very  beautiful  self-sacrifice,  the  destruction  and 
surrender  of  the  symbol  of  personal  dignity  upon 
the  shrine  of  public  festivity.  Now  it  will  not 
do  to  attack  the  modern  editor  merely  for  being 
unrefined,  like  the  great  mass  of  mankind.  We 
must  be  able  to  say  that  he  is  immoral,  not  that 
he  is  undignified  or  ridiculous.  I  do  not  mind 
the  Yellow  Press  editor  sitting  on  his  hat.  My  only 
objection  to  him  begins  to  dawn  when  he  attempts 
to  sit  on  my  hat ;  or,  indeed  (as  is  at  present  the 
case),  when  he  proceeds  to  sit  on  my  head. 

But  in  reading  between  the  lines  of  Dr.  Horton's 
invective  one  continually  feels  that  he  is  not  only 
angry  with  the  popular  Press  for  being  unscrupu- 
lous ;  he  is  partly  angry  with  the  popular  Press 
157 


All  Things   Considered 

lor  being  popular.  He  is  not  only  irritated  with 
Limericks  for  causing  a  mean  money-scramble; 
he  is  also  partly  irritated  with  Limericks  for  being 
Limericks.  The  enormous  size  of  the  levity  gets 
on  his  nerves,  like  the  glare  and  blare  of  Bank 
Holiday.  Now  this  is  a  motive  which,  however 
human  and  natural,  must  be  strictly  kept  out  of 
the  way.  It  takes  all  sorts  to  make  a  world  ;  and 
it  is  not  in  the  least  necessary  that  everybody 
should  have  that  love  of  subtle  and  unobtrusive 
perfections  in  the  matter  of  manners  or  literature 
which  docs  often  go  with  the  type  of  the  ethical 
idealist.  It  is  not  in  the  least  desirable  that  every- 
body should  be  earnest.  It  is  highly  desirable 
that  everybody  should  be  honest,  but  that  is  a 
thing  that  can  go  quite  easily  with  a  coarse  and 
cheerful  character.  But  the  ineffectualness  of 
most  protests  against  the  abu=e  of  the  Press  has 
been  very  largely  due  to  the  instinct  of  democracy 
(and  the  instinct  of  democracy  is  like  the  instinct 
of  one  woman,  wild  but  quite  right)  that  the  people 
who  were  trying  to  purify  the  Press  were  also  try- 
ing to  refine  it;  and  to  this  the  democracy  very 
naturally  and  very  justly  objected.  We  arc  justi- 
fied in  enforcing  good  morals,  for  they  belong  to 
all  mankind  ;  but  we  are  not  justified  in  enforcing 
good  manners,  for  good  manners  always  mean  our 
own  manners.  We  have  no  right  to  purge  the 
15S 


Limericks  and   Counsels  of  Perfection 

popular  Press  of  all  that  we  think  vulgar  or 
trivial.  Dr.  Morton  may  possibly  loathe  and 
detest  Limericks  just  as  I  loathe  and  detest 
riddles;  but  I  have  no  right  to  call  them  flippant 
and  unprofitable ;  there  are  wild  people  in  the 
world  who  like  riddles.  I  am  so  afraid  of  this 
movement  passing  off  into  mere  formless  rhetoric 
and  platform  passion  that  I  will  even  come  close 
to  the  earth  and  lay  down  specifically  some  of  the 
things  that,  in  my  opinion,  could  be,  and  ought  to 
be,  done  to  reform  the  Press, 

First,  I  would  make  a  law,  if  there  is  none  such 
at  present,  by  which  an  editor,  proved  to  have 
published  false  news  without  reasonable  verifica- 
tion, should  simply  go  to  prison.  This  is  not  a 
question  of  influences  or  atmospheres ;  the  thing 
could  be  carried  out  as  easily  and  as  practically 
as  the  punishment  of  thieves  and  murderers.  Of 
course  there  would  be  the  usual  statement  that  the 
guilt  was  that  of  a  subordinate.  Let  the  accused 
editor  have  the  right  of  proving  this  if  he  can  ; 
if  he  does,  let  the  subordinate  be  tried  and  go  to 
prison.  Two  or  three  good  rich  editors  and  pro- 
prietors properly  locked  up  would  take  the  sting 
out  of  the  Yellow  Press  better  than  centuries  of 
Dr.  Horton. 

Second,  it  is  impossible  to  pass  over  altogether 
the  most  unpleasant,  but  the  most  important  part 
159 


All  Things  Considered 

of  this  problem.  I  will  deal  with  it  as  distantly 
as  possible.  I  do  not  believe  there  is  any  harm 
whatever  in  reading  about  murders;  rather,  if  any- 
thing, good;  for  the  thought  of  death  operates 
very  powerfully  with  the  poor  in  the  creati(jn  of 
brotherhood  and  a  sense  of  human  dignity.  I  do 
not  believe  there  is  a  pennyworth  of  harm  in  the 
police  news,  as  such.  Even  divorce  news,  though 
contemptible  enough,  can  really  in  most  cases  be 
left  to  the  discretion  of  grown  people;  and  how 
far  children  get  hold  of  such  things  is  a  problem 
for  the  home  and  not  for  the  nation.  But  there 
is  a  certain  class  of  evils  which  a  healthy  man  or 
woman  can  actually  go  through  life  without  know- 
ing anything  about  at  all.  These,  I  say,  should 
be  stamped  and  blackened  out  of  every  newspaper 
with  the  thickest  black  of  the  Russian  censor. 
Such  cases  should  either  be  always  tried  in  camera 
or  reporting  them  should  be  a  punishable  offence. 
The  common  weakness  of  Nature  and  the  sins 
that  flesh  is  heir  to  we  can  leave  people  to  find 
in  newspapers.  Men  can  safely  see  in  the  papers 
what  they  have  already  seen  in  the  streets.  They 
may  safely  find  in  their  journals  what  they  have 
already  found  in  themselves.  But  we  do  not  want 
the  imaginations  of  rational  and  decent  people 
clouded  with  the  horrors  of  some  obscene  insanity 
which  has  no  more  to  do  with  human  life  than 
1 60 


Limericks  and  Counsels  of  Perfection 

the  man  in  Bedlam  who  thinks  lie  is  a  chicken. 
And,  if  this  vile  matter  is  admiited,  let  it  be 
simply  with  a  mention  of  the  Latin  or  legal  name 
of  the  crime,  and  with  no  details  whatever.  As 
it  is,  exactly  the  reverse  is  true.  Papers  are  per- 
mitted to  terrify  and  darken  the  fancy  of  the  young 
with  innumerable  details,  but  not  permitted  to 
state  in  clean  legal  language  what  the  thing  is 
about.  They  are  allowed  to  give  any  fact  about 
the  thing  except  the  fact  that  it  is  a  sin. 

Third,  I  would  do  my  best  to  introduce  every- 
where the  practice  of  signed  articles.  Those  who 
urge  the  advantages  of  anonymity  are  either  people 
who  do  not  realise  the  special  peril  of  our  time 
or  they  are  people  who  are  profiting  by  it.  It  is 
true,  but  futile,  for  instance,  to  say  that  there  is 
something  noble  in  being  nameless  when  a  whole 
corporate  body  is  bent  on  a  consistent  aim  :  as  in 
an  army  or  men  building  a  cathedral.  The  point 
of  modern  newspapers  is  that  there  is  no  such 
corporate  body  and  common  aim;  but  each  man 
can  use  the  authority  of  the  paper  to  further  his 
own  private  fads  and  his  own  private  finances. 


l6i 


Anonymity  and  Further  Counsels        © 

'"PHE  end  of  the  article  which  I  write  is  always 
cut  off,  and,  unfortunately,  I  belong  to  that 
lower  class  of  animals  in  whom  the  tail  is  im- 
portant. It  is  not  anybody's  fault  but  my  own; 
it  arises  I'rom  the  fact  that  I  take  such  a  long  time 
to  get  to  the  point.  Somebody,  the  other  day, 
very  reasonably  complained  of  my  being  employed 
to  write  prefaces.  He  was  perfectly  right,  for  I 
always  write  a  preface  to  the  preface,  and  then 
I  am  stopped ;  also  quite  justifiably. 

In  my  last  article  I  said  that  I  favoured  three 
things — first,  the  legal  punishment  of  deliberately 
false  information;  secondly,  a  distinction,  in  the 
matter  of  reported  immorality,  between  those  sins 
which  any  healthy  man  can  see  in  himself  and 
those  which  he  had  better  not  see  anywhere;  and 
thirdly,  an  absolute  insistence  in  the  great  majority 
of  cases  upon  the  signing  of  articles.  It  was  at 
this  point  that  I  was  cut  short,  I  will  not  say  by 
the  law  of  space,  but  rather  by  my  own  lawlessness 
'63 


All   Things  Considered 

in  the  matter  of  space.  In  any  case,  there  is 
something  more  that  ouglil  to  be  said. 

It  would  be  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  I  hope 
some  day  to  sec  an  anonymous  article  counted  as 
dishonourable  as  an  anonymous  letter.  For  some 
time  to  come,  the  idea  of  the  leading  article, 
expressing  the  policy  of  the  whole  paper,  must 
necessarily  remain  legitimate;  at  any  rate,  we 
have  all  written  such  leading  articles,  and  should 
never  think  the  worse  of  any  one  fur  writing  one. 
But  I  should  certainly  say  that  writing  anony- 
mously ought  to  have  some  definite  excuse, 
such  as  that  of  the  leading  article.  Writing 
anonymously  ought  to  be  the  exception;  writing 
a  signed  article  ought  to  be  the  rule.  And 
anonymity  ought  to  be  not  only  an  exception, 
but  an  accidental  exception ;  a  man  ought  always 
to  be  ready  to  say  what  anonymous  article  he 
had  written.  The  journalistic  habit  of  counting 
it  something  sacred  to  keep  secret  the  origin  of 
an  article  is  simply  part  of  the  conspiracy  which 
seeks  to  put  us  who  are  journalists  in  the  position 
of  a  much  worse  sort  of  Jesuits  or  Freemasons. 

As  has  often  been  said,  anonymity  would  be 
all  very  well  if  one  could  for  a  moment  imagine 
that  it  was  established  from  good  motives.  Sup- 
pose, for  instance,  that  we  were  all  quite  certain 
that  the  men  on  the  Thunderer  newspaper  were 
164 


Anonymity  and  Further  Counsels 

a  band  of  brave  young  idealists  who  were  so  eager 
to  overthrow  Socialism,  Municipal  and  National, 
that  they  did  not  care  to  which  of  them  especially 
was  given  the  glory  of  striking  it  down.  Unfortu- 
nately, however,  we  do  not  believe  this.  What 
we  believe,  or,  rather,  what  we  know,  is  that  the 
attack  on  Socialism  in  the  Thunderer  arises  from 
a  chaos  of  inconsistent  and  mostly  evil  motives, 
any  one  of  which  would  lose  simply  by  being 
named.  A  jerry-builder  whose  houses  have  been 
condemned  writes  anonymously  and  becomes  the 
Thunderer.  A  Socialist  who  has  quarrelled  with 
the  other  Socialists  writes  anonymously,  and  he 
becomes  the  Thunderer,  A  monopolist  who  has 
lost  his  monopoly,  and  a  demagogue  who  has  lost 
his  mob,  can  both  write  anonymously  and  become 
the  same  newspaper.  It  is  quite  true  that  there 
is  a  young  and  beautiful  fanaticism  in  which  men 
do  not  care  to  reveal  their  names.  But  there  is  a 
more  elderly  and  a  much  more  common  excite- 
ment in  which  men  do  not  dare  to  reveal  them. 

Then  there  is  another  rule  for  making  journalism 
honest  on  which  I  should  like  to  insist  absolutely. 
I  should  like  it  to  be  a  fixed  thing  that  the  name 
of  the  proprietor  as  well  as  the  editor  should  be 
printed  upon  every  paper.  If  the  paper  is  owned 
by  shareholders,  let  there  be  a  list  of  the  share- 
holcler^.  If  (as  is  far  more  common  in  this 
165 


All   Things  Considered 

singularly  undemocratic  age)  it  is  owned  by  one 
man,  let  that  one  man's  name  be  printed  on  the 
paper,  if  possible  in  large  red  letters.  Then,  if 
there  are  any  obvious  interests  being  served,  we 
shall  know  that  they  are  being  served.  My 
friends  in  Manchester  are  in  a  terrible  state  of 
excitement  about  the  power  of  brewers  and  the 
dangers  of  admitting  them  to  public  ofllce.  But 
at  least,  if  a  man  has  controlled  politics  through 
beer,  people  generally  know  it :  the  subject  of 
beer  is  too  fascinating  for  any  one  to  miss  such 
personal  peculiarities.  But  a  man  may  control 
politics  through  journalism,  and  no  ordinary 
English  citizen  know  that  he  is  controlling  them 
at  all.  Again  and  again  in  the  lists  of  Birthday 
Honours  you  and  I  have  seen  some  Mr.  Robinson 
suddenly  elevated  to  the  Peerage  without  any 
apparent  reason.  Even  the  Society  papers  (which 
we  read  with  avidity)  could  tell  us  nothing  about 
him  except  that  he  was  a  sportsman  or  a  kind 
landlord,  or  interested  in  the  breeding  of  badgers. 
Now  I  should  like  the  name  of  that  Mr.  Robinson 
to  be  already  familiar  to  the  British  public.  I 
should  like  them  to  know  already  the  public 
services  for  which  they  have  to  thank  him.  I 
should  like  them  to  have  seen  the  name  already 
on  the  outside  of  that  organ  of  public  opinion 
called  Tootsies  Tifs,  or  T/ir  Boy  Blackmailer^  or 
i66 


Anonymity  and   Further  Counsels 

Nosey  Knoivs,  that  bright  little  financial  paper 
which  did  so  much  for  the  Empire  and  which  so 
narrowly  escaped  a  criminal  prosecution.  If  they 
had  seen  it  thus,  they  would  estimate  more  truly 
and  tenderly  the  full  value  of  the  statement  in 
the  Society  paper  that  he  is  a  true  gentleman  and 
a  sound  Churchman. 

Finally,  it  should  be  practically  imposed  by 
custom  (it  so  happens  that  it  could  not  possibly 
be  imposed  by  law)  that  letters  of  definite  and 
practical  complaint  should  be  necessarily  inserted 
by  any  editor  in  any  paper.  Editors  have  grown 
very  much  too  lax  in  this  respect.  The  old  editor 
used  dimly  to  regard  himself  as  an  unofficial  public 
servant  for  the  transmitting  of  public  news.  If 
he  suppressed  anything,  he  was  supposed  to  have 
some  special  reason  for  doing  so;  as  that  the 
material  was  actually  libellous  or  literally  indecent. 
But  the  modern  editor  regards  himself  far  too 
much  as  a  kind  of  original  artist,  who  can  select 
and  suppress  facts  with  the  arbitrary  ease  of  a  poet 
or  a  caricaturist.  He  "  makes  up  "  the  paper  as 
man  "makes  up"  a  fairy  tale,  he  considers  his 
newspaper  solely  as  a  work  of  art,  meant  to  give 
pleasure,  not  to  give  news.  He  puts  in  this  one 
letter  because  he  thinks  it  clever.  He  puts  in 
these  three  or  four  letters  because  he  thinks  them 
silly.  He  suppresses  this  article  because  he  thinks 
167 


/^ 


All   Things  Considered 

it  wrong.  He  suppresses  this  other  and  more 
dangerous  article  because  he  tliinks  it  right. 
The  old  idea  that  he  is  simply  a  mode  of  the 
expression  of  the  public,  an  "organ"  of  opinion, 
seems  to  have  entirely  vanished  from  his  mind.  To- 
day the  editor  is  not  only  tlie  organ,  but  the  man 
who  plays  on  the  organ.  For  in  all  our  modern 
movements  we  move  away  from  Democracy. 

This  is  the  whole  danger  of  our  time.  There 
is  a  difference  between  the  oppression  which  has 
been  too  common  in  the  past  and  the  oppression 
which  seems  only  too  probable  in  the  future. 
Oppression  in  the  past  has  commonly  been  an 
individual  matter.  The  oppressors  were  as  simple 
as  the  oppressed,  and  as  lonely.  The  aristocrat 
sometimes  hated  his  inferiors;  he  always  hated 
his  equals.  The  plutocrat  was  an  individualist. 
But  in  our  time  even  the  plutocrat  has  become 
a  Socialist.  They  have  science  and  combination, 
and  may  easily  inaugurate  a  much  greater  tyranny 
than  the  world  has  ever  seen. 


}68 


On  the  Cryptic  and  the  Elliptic       Q 

O  URELY  the  art  of  reporting  speeches  is  in  a 
strange  state  of  degeneration.  We  should 
not  object,  perhaps,  to  the  reporter's  making  the 
speeches  much  shorter  than  they  are ;  but  we  do 
object  to  his  making  all  the  speeches  much  worse 
than  they  are.  And  the  method  which  he  employs 
is  one  which  is  dangerously  unjust.  When  a 
statesman  or  philosopher  makes  an  important 
speech,  there  are  several  courses  which  the 
reporter  might  take  without  being  unreasonable. 
Perhaps  the  most  reasonable  course  of  all  would 
be  not  to  report  the  speech  at  all.  Let  the  world 
live  and  love,  marry  and  give  in  marriage,  with- 
out that  particular  speech,  as  they  did  (in  some 
desperate  way)  in  the  days  when  there  were  no 
newspapers.  A  second  course  would  be  to  report 
a  small  part  of  it ;  but  to  get  that  right.  A  third 
course,  far  better  if  you  can  do  it,  is  to  understand 
tlie  main  purpose  and  argument  of  the  speech, 
and  report  that  in  clear  and  logical  language  of 
169 


All  Things  Considered 

your  own.  In  short,  the  three  possible  methods 
are,  first,  to  leave  the  man's  speech  alone;  second, 
to  rej)  )rt  what  he  says  or  some  complete  part  of 
what  he  says;  and  third,  to  report  what  he  means. 
But  the  present  way  of  reporting  speeches  (mainly 
created,  I  think,  by  the  scrajjpy  methods  of  the 
Daily  Mail)  is  something  utterly  different  from 
both  these  ways,  and  quite  useless  and  misleading. 
The  present  method  is  this  :  the  reporter  sits 
listening  to  a  tide  of  words  which  he  does  not 
try  to  understand,  and  does  not,  generally  speak- 
ing, even  try  to  take  down  ;  he  waits  until  some- 
thing occurs  in  the  speech  which  for  some  reason 
sounds  funny,  or  memorable,  or  very  exaggerated, 
or,  perhaps,  merely  concrete ;  then  he  writes  it 
down  and  waits  for  the  next  one.  If  the  orator 
says  that  the  Premier  is  like  a  porpoise  in  the 
sea  under  some  special  circumstances,  the  reporter 
gets  in  the  porpoise  even  if  he  leaves  out  the 
Premier.  If  tlie  orator  begins  by  saying  that  Mr. 
Chamberlain  is  rather  like  a  violoncello,  the 
reporter  does  not  even  wait  to  hear  why  he  is 
like  a  violoncello.  He  has  got  hold  of  something 
material,  and  so  he  is  quite  happy.  The  strong 
words  are  all  put  in ;  the  chain  of  thought  is 
left  out  If  the  orator  uses  the  word  "donkey," 
down  goes  the  word  "  donkey."  If  the  orator 
uses  the  word  "damnable,"  down  goes  the  word 
170 


On  the   Cryptic  and  the  Elliptic 

•'  damnable."  They  follow  each  other  so  abruptly 
in  the  report  that  it  is  often  hard  to  discover  the 
fascinating  fact  as  to  what  wis  damnable  or  who 
was  being  compared  with  a  donkey.  And  the 
wliole  line  of  argument  in  which  these  things 
occurred  is  entirely  lost,  I  have  before  me  a 
newspaper  report  of  a  speech  by  Mr.  Bernard 
ShaWj  of  which  one  complete  and  separate  para- 
graph runs  like  this — 

"  Capital  meant  spare  money  over  and  above  one's 
needs.  Their  country  was  not  really  their  country  at 
all  except  in  patriotic  songs." 

I  am  well  enough  acquainted  with  the  whole 
map  of  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw's  philosophy  to  know 
that  those  two  statements  might  have  been  related 
to  each  other  in  a  hundred  ways.  But  I  think  that 
if  they  were  read  by  an  ordinary  intelligent  man, 
who  happened  not  to  know  Mr.  Shaw's  views,  he 
would  form  no  impression  at  all  except  that  Mr, 
Shaw  was  a  lunatic  of  more  than  usually  abrupt 
conversation  and  disconnected  mind.  The  other 
two  methods  would  certainly  have  done  Mr.  Shaw 
more  justice :  the  reporter  should  either  have 
taken  down  verbatim  what  the  speaker  really  said 
about  Capital,  or  have  given  an  outline  of  the  way 
in. which  this  idea  was  connected  with  the  idea 
about  patriotic  songs. 

171 


All  Things  Considered 

But  we  have  not  the  advantage  of  knowing  what 
Mr.  Shaw  really  did  say,  so  we  had  better  illustrate 
the  difierent  methods  from  something  that  we  do 
know.  Most  of  us,  I  suppose,  know  Mark  Antony's 
Funeral  Speech  in  "Julius  Ccesar."  Now  Mark 
Antony  would  have  no  reason  to  complain  if  he 
were  not  reported  at  all ;  if  the  Daily  Piluvi  or  the 
Morning  Fasces,  or  whatever  it  was,  confined  itself  to 
saying,  "  Mr.  Maik  Antony  also  spoke,"  or  "  Mr. 
Mark  Antony,  having  aJdressed  the  audience,  the 
meeting  broke  up  in  some  confusion."  The  next 
honest  method,  worthy  of  a  noble  Roman  reporter, 
would  be,  that  since  he  could  not  report  the  whole 
of  the  speech,  he  should  report  some  of  the  speech. 
He  might  say — "  Mr.  Mark  Antony,  in  the  course 
of  his  speech,  said — 

"  '  Wlicn  tliat  the  poor  have  cried  Cirsar  hath  wept  : 
Ambition  should  be  maile  of  sterner  slulY.'" 

In  that  case  one  good,  solid  argument  of  Mark 
Antony  would  be  correctly  reported.  The  third 
and  far  higher  course  for  the  Roman  reporter 
would  be  to  give  a  philosophical  statement  of  the 
purport  of  the  speech.  As  thus — "  Mr.  Mark 
Antony,  in  the  course  of  a  powerful  speech,  con- 
ceded the  high  motives  of  the  Republican  leaders, 
and  disclaimed  any  intention  of  raising  the  j'cople 
against   them ;     he   thought,    however,   that   many 

172 


On   the   Cryptic   and   the   Elliptic 

instances  could  be  quoted  against  the  theory  of 
Cresar's  ambition,  and  he  concluded  by  reading, 
at  the  request  of  the  audience,  the  will  of  Caesar, 
which  proved  that  he  had  the  most  benevolent 
designs  towards  the  Roman  people,"  That  is  (I 
admit)  not  quite  so  fine  as  Shakspere,  but  it  is 
a  statement  of  the  man's  political  position.  But 
if  a  Daily  Mail  reporter  were  sent  to  take  down 
Antony's  oration,  he  would  simply  wait  for  any 
expressions  that  struck  him  as  odd  and  put  them 
down  one  after  another  without  any  logical  con- 
nection at  aU.  It  would  turn  out  something  like 
this  :  *'  Mr.  Mark  Antony  wished  for  his  audience's 
ears.  He  had  thrice  offered  Caesar  a  crown. 
Caisar  was  like  a  deer.  If  he  were  Brutus  he 
would  put  a  wound  in  every  tongue.  The  stones 
of  Rome  would  mutiny.  See  what  a  rent  the 
envious  Casca  paid.  Brutus  was  Cesar's  angel. 
The  right  honourable  gentleman  concluded  by 
saying  that  he  and  the  audience  had  all  fallen 
down,"  That  is  the  report  of  a  political  speech 
in  a  modern,  progressive,  or  American  manner, 
and  I  wonder  whether  the  Romans  would  have 
put  up  with  it. 

The  reports  of  the  debates  in   the   Houses  of 

Parliament   are    constantly   growing   smaller    and 

smaller  in  our  newspapers.     Perhaps  this  is  partly 

because    the    speeches    are    growing   duller    and 

173 


All  Things  Considered 

duller.  I  think  in  some  degree  the  two  things 
act  and  re-act  on  each  other.  For  fear  of  the 
newspapers  politicians  are  dull,  and  at  last  they  are 
too  dull  even  for  the  newspapers.  The  speeches 
in  our  time  are  more  careful  and  elaborate,  be- 
cause they  are  meant  to  be  read,  and  not  to  be 
heard.  And  exactly  because  they  are  more  careful 
and  elaborate,  they  are  not  so  likely  to  be  worthy 
of  a  careful  and  elaborate  report.  They  are  not 
interesting  enough.  So  the  moral  cowardice  of 
modern  politicians  has,  after  all,  some  punishment 
attached  to  it  by  the  silent  anger  of  heavea  Pre- 
cisely because  our  political  speeches  are  meant  to 
be  reported,  they  are  not  worth  reporting.  Pre- 
cisely because  they  are  carefully  designed  to  be 
read,  nobody  reads  them. 

Thus  we  may  concede  that  politicians  have 
done  something  towards  degrading  journalism.  It 
was  not  entirely  done  by  us,  the  journalists.  But 
most  of  it  was.  It  was  mostly  the  fruit  of  our 
first  and  most  natural  sin — the  habit  of  regarding 
ourselves  as  conjurers  rather  than  priests,  for  the 
definiiion  is  that  a  conjurer  is  apart  from  his 
audience,  while  a  priest  is  a  part  of  his.  The 
conjurer  despises  his  congregation;  if  the  priest 
despises  any  one,  it  must  be  himself.  The  curse 
of  all  journalism,  but  especially  of  that  yellow 
journalism  which  is  the  shame  of  our  profession, 
174 


On   the  Cryptic  and   the   Elliptic 

is  that  we  think  ourselves  cleverer  than  the  people 
for  whom  we  write,  whereas,  in  fact,  we  are 
generally  even  stupider.  But  this  insolence  has 
its  Nemesis ;  and  that  Nemesis  is  well  illustrated 
in  this  matter  of  reporting. 

For  the  journalist,  having  grown  accustomed  to 
talking  down  to  the  public,  commonly  talks  too 
low  at  last,  and  becomes  merely  barbaric  and 
unintelligible.  By  his  very  efforts  to  be  obvious 
he  becomes  obscure.  This  just  punishment  may 
specially  be  noticed  in  the  case  of  those  staggering 
and  staring  headlines  which  American  journalism 
introduced  and  which  some  English  journalism 
imitates.  I  once  saw  a  headline  in  a  London 
paper  which  ran  simply  thus  :  "  Dobbin's  Little 
Mary."  This  was  intended  to  be  familiar  and 
popular,  and  therefore,  presumably,  lucid.  But 
it  was  some  time  before  I  realised,  after  reading 
about  half  the  printed  matter  underneath,  that  it 
had  something  to  do  with  the  proper  feeding  of 
horses.  At  first  sight,  I  took  it,  as  the  historical 
leader  of  the  future  will  certainly  take  it,  as  con- 
taining some  allusion  to  the  little  daughter  who  so 
monopolised  the  affections  of  the  Major  at  the 
end  of  "  Vanity  Fair."  The  Americans  carry  to 
an  even  wilder  extreme  this  darkness  by  excess  of 
light.  You  may  find  a  column  in  an  American 
paper  headed  "  Poet  Brown  Off  Orange-flowers,"  or 
i7S 


All   Things   Consltlcred 

"  Senator  Robinson  Shoehorns  Hats  Now,"  and  it 
may  be  quite  a  long  time  before  the  full  meaning 
breaks  upon  you  :  it  has  not  broken  upon  mc  yet. 
And  something  of  this  intellectual  vengeance 
pursues  also  those  who  adopt  the  modern  method 
of  reporting  speeches.  They  also  become  mystical, 
simply  by  trying  to  be  vulgar.  They  also  are  con- 
demned to  be  always  trying  to  write  like  George 
R.  Sims,  and  succeeding,  in  spite  of  themselves,  in 
writing  like  Maeterlinck.  That  combination  of 
words  which  I  have  quoted  from  an  alleged  speech 
of  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw's  was  written  down  by  the 
reporter  with  the  idea  that  he  was  being  particularly 
plain  and  democratic.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
if  there  is  any  connection  between  the  two 
sentences,  it  must  be  something  as  dark  as  the 
deepest  roots  of  Browning,  or  something  as  in- 
visible as  the  most  airy  filaments  of  Meredith. 
To  be  simple  and  to  be  democratic  are  two  very 
honourable  and  austere  achievements;  and  it  is 
not  given  to  all  the  snobs  and  self-seekers  to 
achieve  them.  High  above  even  Maeterlinck  or 
Meredith  stand  those,  like  Homer  and  Milton, 
whom  no  one  can  misunderstand.  And  Homer 
and  Milton  are  not  only  better  poets  than  Brown- 
ing (great  as  he  was),  but  they  would  also  have 
been  very  much  better  journalists  than  the  young 
men  on  the  Daily  Mail. 

176 


On   the  Cryptic  and  the  Elliptic 

As  it  is,  however,  this  misrepresentation  of 
speeches  is  only  a  part  of  a  vast  journalistic  mis- 
representation of  all  life  as  it  is.  Journalism  is 
popular,  but  it  is  popular  mainly  as  fiction.  Life 
is  one  world,  and  life  seen  in  the  newspapers 
another ;  the  public  enjoys  both,  but  it  is  more 
or  less  conscious  of  the  difference.  People  do  not 
believe,  for  instance,  that  the  debates  in  the  House 
of  Commons  are  as  dramatic  as  they  appear  in  the 
daily  papers.  If  they  did  they  would  go,  not  to 
tlie  daily  paper,  but  to  the  House  of  Commons. 
The  galleries  would  be  crowded  every  night  as 
they  were  in  the  French  Revolution ;  for  instead 
of  seeing  a  printed  story  for  a  penny  they  would 
be  seeing  an  acted  drama  for  nothing.  But  the 
people  know  in  their  hearts  that  journalism  is  a 
conventional  art  like  any  other,  that  it  selects, 
heightens,  and  falsifies.  Only  its  Nemesis  is  the 
same  as  that  of  other  arts  :  if  it  loses  all  care  foi 
truth  it  loses  all  form  likewise.  The  modern  who 
paints  too  cleverly  produces  a  picture  of  a  cow 
which  might  be  the  earthquake  at  San  Francisco. 
And  the  journalist  who  reports  a  speech  too 
cleverly  makes  it  mean  nothing  at  all. 


177 


The  Worship  of  the  Wealthy        ®        © 

'HPHERE  has  crept,  I  notice,  into  our  literature 
and  journalism  a  new  way  of  flattering  the 
wealthy  and  the  great.  In  more  straightforward 
times  flattery  itself  was  more  straightforward;  false- 
hood itself  was  more  true.  A  poor  man  wishing 
to  please  a  rich  man  simply  said  that  he  was  the 
wisest,  bravest,  tallest,  strongest,  most  benevolent 
and  most  beautiful  of  mankind  ;  and  as  even  the 
rich  man  probably  knew  that  he  wasn't  that,  the 
thing  did  the  less  harm.  When  courtiers  sang 
the  praises  of  a  King  they  attributed  to  him  things 
that  were  entirely  improbable,  as  that  he  resembled 
the  sun  at  noonday,  that  they  had  to  shade  their 
eyes  when  he  entered  the  room,  that  his  people 
could  not  breathe  without  him,  or  that  he  had 
with  his  single  sword  conquered  Europe,  Asia, 
Africa,  and  America.  The  safety  of  this  method 
was  its  artificiality;  between  the  King  and  his 
public  image  there  was  really  no  relation.  But 
the  moderns  have  invented  a  much  subtler  and 
179 


All   Things   Considered 

more  poisonous  kind  of  eulogy.  The  modern 
method  is  to  take  the  prince  or  rich  man,  to 
give  a  credible  picture  of  his  type  of  personality, 
as  that  he  is  business-like,  or  a  sportsman,  or 
fond  of  art,  or  convivial,  or  reserved;  and  then 
enormously  exaggerate  the  value  and  importance 
of  these  natural  qualities.  Those  who  praise  Mr. 
Carnegie  do  not  say  that  he  is  as  wise  as  Solomon 
and  as  brave  as  Mars  ;  I  wish  they  did.  It  would 
be  the  next  most  honest  thing  to  giving  their  real 
reason  for  praising  him,  which  is  simply  that  he 
has  money.  The  journalists  who  write  about  Mr. 
Pierpont  Morgan  do  not  say  that  he  is  as  beautiful 
as  Apollo ;  I  wish  they  did.  What  they  do  is  to 
take  the  rich  man's  superficial  life  and  manner, 
clothes,  hobbies,  love  of  cats,  dislike  of  doctors, 
or  what  not ;  and  then  with  the  assistance  of  this 
realism  make  the  man  out  to  be  a  prophet  and 
a  saviour  of  his  kind,  whereas  he  is  merely  a 
private  and  stupid  man  who  happens  to  like  cats 
or  to  dislike  doctors.  The  old  flatterer  took  for 
granted  that  the  King  was  an  ordinary  man,  and 
set  to  work  to  make  him  out  extraordinary.  The 
newer  and  cleverer  flatterer  takes  for  granted 
that  he  is  extraordinary,  and  that  therefore  even 
ordinary  things  about  him  will  be  of  interest. 

I  have  noticed  one  very  amusing  way  in  which 
this    is   done.      I   notice   the    method  applied    to 
I  So 


The  Worship  of  the  Wealthy 

about  six  of  the  wealthiest  men  in  England  in 
a  book  of  interviews  published  by  an  able  and 
well-known  journalist.  The  flatterer  contrives  to 
combine  strict  truth  of  fact  with  a  vast  atmo- 
sphere of  awe  and  mystery  by  the  simple  operation 
of  dealing  almost  entirely  in  negatives.  Suppose 
you  are  writing  a  sympathetic  study  of  Mr.  Pier- 
pont  Morgan.  Perhaps  there  is  not  much  to  say 
about  what  he  does  think,  or  like,  or  admire ; 
but  you  can  suggest  whole  vistas  of  his  taste  and 
philosophy  by  talking  a  great  deal  about  what 
he  does  not  think,  or  like,  or  admire.  You  say 
of  him — *'  But  little  attracted  to  the  most  recent 
schools  of  German  philosophy,  he  stands  almost 
as  resolutely  aloof  from  the  tendencies  of  trans- 
cendental Pantheism  as  from  the  narrower  ecstasies 
of  Neo-Catholicism."  Or  suppose  I  am  called 
upon  to  praise  the  charwoman  who  has  just  come 
into  my  house,  and  who  certainly  deserves  it 
much  more.  I  say — "  It  would  be  a  mistake  to 
class  Mrs.  Higgs  among  the  followers  of  Loisy ; 
her  position  is  in  many  ways  different ;  nor  is 
she  wholly  to  be  identified  with  the  concrete 
Hebraism  of  Harnack."  It  is  a  splendid  method 
as  it  gives  the  flatterer  an  opportunity  of  talking 
about  something  else  besides  the  subject  of  the 
flattery,  and  it  gives  the  subject  of  the  flattery  a 
rich,  if  somewhat  bewildered,  mental  glow,  as  of 
iSi 


All   Things   Considered 

one  who  has  somehow  gone  through  agonies  of 
pliilosojjhical  choice  of  which  he  was  i)rcviously 
unaware.  It  is  a  splendid  method;  but  I  wish 
it  were  applied  sometimes  to  charwomen  rather 
than  only  to  millionaires. 

There  is  another  way  of  flattering  important 
people  which  has  become  very  common,  I  notice, 
among  writers  in  the  newspapers  and  elsewhere. 
It  consists  in  applying  to  ihcm  the  phrases 
"  simple,"  or  "  quiet,"  or  "  modest,"  without  any 
sort  of  meaning  or  relation  to  the  person  to 
whom  they  are  applied.  To  be  simple  is  the 
best  thing  in  the  world ;  to  be  modest  is  the 
next  best  thing.  I  am  not  so  sure  about  being 
quiet.  I  am  rather  inclined  to  think  that  really 
modest  people  make  a  great  deal  of  noise.  It  is 
quite  self-evident  that  really  simple  people  make 
a  great  deal  of  noise.  But  sim[>licity  and  modesty, 
at  least,  are  very  rare  and  royal  human  virtues, 
not  to  be  lighily  talked  about.  Few  human 
beings,  and  at  rare  intervals,  have  really  risen 
into  being  modest ;  not  one  man  in  ten  or  in 
twenty  has  by  long  wars  become  simple,  as  an 
actual  old  soldier  docs  by  long  wars  become 
simple.  These  virtues  are  not  things  to  fling 
about  as  mere  flattery  ;  many  prophets  and 
righteous  men  have  desired  to  see  these  things 
and  have  not  seen  them.  But  in  the  description 
1S2 


The  Worship  of  the  Wealthy 

of  the  births,  lives,  and  deaths  of  very  luxurious 
men  they  are  used  incessantly  and  quite  without 
thought.  If  a  journalist  has  to  describe  a  great 
politician  or  financier  (the  things  are  substantially 
the  same)  entering  a  room  or  walking  down  a 
thoroughfare,  he  always  says,  "  I\Ir,  Midas  was 
quietly  dressed  in  a  black  frock  coat,  a  white 
waistcoat,  and  light  grey  trousers,  with  a  plain 
green  tie  and  simple  flower  in  his  button-hole." 
As  if  any  one  would  expect  him  to  have  a  crimson 
frock  coat  or  spangled  trousers.  As  if  any  one 
would  expect  hira  to  have  a  burning  Catherine 
wheel  in  his  button-hole. 

But  this  process,  which  is  absurd  enough  when 
applied  to  the  ordinary  and  external  lives  of 
worldly  people,  becomes  perfectly  intolerable  when 
it  is  applied,  as  it  always  is  applied,  to  the  one 
episode  which  is  serious  even  in  the  lives  of 
poliiicians.  I  mean  their  death.  When  we  have 
been  sufficiently  bored  with  the  account  of  the 
simple  costume  of  the  millionaire,  which  is  gene- 
rally about  as  complicated  as  any  that  he  could 
assume  without  being  simply  thought  mad ;  when 
we  have  been  told  about  the  modest  home  of 
the  millionaire,  a  home  which  is  generally  much 
loo  immodest  to  be  called  a  home  at  all;  when 
we  have  followed  him  through  all  these  unmean- 
ing eulogies,  we  are  always  asked  last  of  all  to 
183 


All  ThiniiS  Considered 


to 


admire  his  iiiiict  funeral.  I  do  not  know  wliat 
else  peoijle  think  a  funeral  should  be  except  quiet. 
Vet  again  and  again,  over  the  grave  of  every  one 
of  those  sad  rich  men,  for  whom  one  should  surely 
feel,  first  and  last,  a  speechless  pity — over  the 
grave  of  Beit,  over  the  grave  of  Whiteley — this 
sickening  nonsense  about  modesty  and  simplicity 
has  been  poured  out,  I  well  remember  that  when 
Beit  was  buried,  the  papers  said  that  the  mourning- 
coaches  contained  everybody  of  importance,  that 
the  floral  tributes  were  sumptuous,  splendid,  intoxi- 
cating; but,  for  all  that,  it  was  a  simple  and  quiet 
funeral.  What,  in  the  name  of  Acheron,  did  they 
expect  it  to  be?  Did  they  think  there  would  be 
human  sacrifice — the  immolation  of  Oriental  slaves 
upon  the  tomb  ?  Did  they  think  that  long  rows 
of  Oriental  dancing-girls  would  sway  hither  and 
thither  in  an  ecstasy  of  lament?  Did  they  look 
for  the  funeral  games  of  Patroclus  ?  I  fear  they 
had  no  such  splendid  and  pagan  meaning.  I  fear 
they  were  only  using  the  words  "  quiet "  and 
"  modest "  as  words  to  fill  up  a  page — a  mere 
jticce  of  the  automaiic  hypocrisy  which  does 
become  too  common  among  those  who  have  to 
write  rapidly  and  often.  The  word  "  modest " 
will  soon  become  like  the  word  "  honourable," 
which  is  said  to  be  employed  by  the  Japanese 
befure  any  word  that  occurs  in  a  polite  sentence, 
1S4 


The  Worship   of  the   Wealthy 

as  "  Put  honourable  umbrella  in  honourable 
umbrella-stand";  or  "condescend  to  clean  hon- 
ourable boots."  We  shall  read  in  the  future  that 
the  modest  King  went  out  in  his  modest  crown, 
clad  from  head  to  foot  in  modest  gold  and 
attended  with  his  ten  thousand  modest  earls, 
their  swords  modestly  drawn.  No !  if  we  have 
to  pay  for  splendour  let  us  praise  it  as  splendour, 
not  as  simplicity.  When  next  I  meet  a  rich  man 
I  intend  to  walk  up  to  him  in  the  street  and 
address  him  with  Oriental  hyperbole.  He  will 
probably  run  away. 


185 


Science  and  Religion         ©        ©        © 

T  N  these  days  we  are  accused  of  attacking 
science  because  we  want  it  to  be  scientific. 
Surely  there  is  not  any  undue  disrespect  to  our 
doctor  in  saying  that  he  is  our  doctor,  not  our 
priest,  or  our  wife,  or  ourself.  It  is  not  the  busi- 
ness of  the  doctor  to  say  that  we  must  go  to  a 
watering-place ;  it  is  his  affair  to  say  that  certain 
results  of  health  will  follow  if  we  do  go  to  a 
watering-place.  After  that,  obviously,  it  is  for  us 
to  judge.  Physical  science  is  like  simple  addition  : 
it  is  either  infallible  or  it  is  false.  To  mix  science 
up  with  philosophy  is  only  to  produce  a  philo- 
sophy that  has  lost  all  its  ideal  value  and  a 
science  that  has  lost  all  its  practical  value.  I 
want  my  private  physician  to  tell  me  whether  this 
or  that  food  will  kill  me.  It  is  for  my  private 
philosopher  to  tell  me  whether  I  ought  to  be 
killed.  I  apologise  for  stating  all  these  truisms. 
But  the  truth  is,  that  I  have  just  been  reading 
a  thick  pamphlet  written  by  a  mass  of  highly 
187 


All  Things  Considered 

intelligent  men  who  seem   never   to   have    heard 
of  any  of  these  truisms  in  their  lives. 

Those  who  detest  the  harmless  writer  of  this 
column  are  generally  reduced  (in  their  final 
ecstasy  of  anger)  to  calling  him  "brilliant"; 
which  has  long  ago  in  our  journalism  become 
a  mere  expression  of  contempt.  But  I  am  afraid 
that  even  this  disdainful  phrase  does  me  too  much 
honour.  I  am  more  and  more  convinced  that  I 
suffer,  not  from  a  shiny  or  showy  impertinence, 
but  from  a  simplicity  that  verges  upon  imbecilily. 
I  think  more  and  more  that  I  must  be  very  dull, 
and  that  everybody  else  in  the  modern  world  must 
be  very  clever,  I  have  just  been  reading  this 
important  compilation,  sent  to  me  in  the  name 
of  a  number  of  men  for  whom  I  have  a  high 
respect,  and  called  "  New  Theology  and  Applied 
Religion."  And  it  is  literally  true  that  I  have 
read  through  whole  columns  of  the  things  without 
knowing  what  the  people  were  talking  about. 
Either  they  must  be  talking  about  some  black 
and  bestial  religion  in  which  they  were  brought 
up,  and  of  which  I  never  even  heard,  or  else  they 
must  be  talking  about  some  blazing  and  blinding 
vision  of  God  which  they  have  found,  which  I 
have  never  found,  and  which  by  its  very  splendour 
confuses  their  logic  and  confounds  their  speech. 
But  the  best  instance  I  can  quote  of  the  thing  is 
iS8 


Science  and  Religion 

in  connection  with  this  matter  of  the  business  of 
physical  science  on  the  earth,  of  which  I  have  just 
spoken.  The  following  words  are  written  over  the 
signature  of  a  man  whose  intelligence  I  respect, 
and  I  cannot  make  head  or  tail  of  them — 

"  When  modern  science  declared  that  the  cosmic 
process  knew  nothing  of  a  historical  event  corre- 
sponding to  a  Fall,  but  told,  on  the  contrary,  the 
story  of  an  incessant  rise  in  the  scale  of  being,  it  was 
quite  plain  that  the  Pauline  scheme — I  mean  the 
argumentative  processes  of  Paul's  scheme  of  salva- 
tion— had  lost  its  very  foundation  ;  for  was  not  that 
foundation  the  total  depravity  of  the  human  race 
inherited  from  their  first  parents?  .  .  .  But  now  there 
was  no  Fall ;  there  was  no  total  depravity,  or  immi- 
nent danger  of  endless  doom  ;  and,  the  basis  gone, 
the  superstructure  followed." 

It  is  written  with  earnestness  and  in  excellent 
English ;  it  must  mean  something.  But  what  can 
it  mean  ?  How  could  physical  science  prove  that 
man  is  not  depraved  ?  You  do  not  cut  a  man 
open  to  find  his  sins.  You  do  not  boil  him  until 
he  gives  forth  the  unmistakable  green  fumes  of 
depravity.  How  could  physical  science  find  any 
traces  of  a  moral  fall  ?  What  traces  did  the  writei 
expect  to  find  ?  Did  he  expect  to  find  a  fossil 
Eve  with  a  fossil  apple  inside  her?  Did  he  sup- 
pose that  the  ages  would  have  spared  for  him  a 
189 


All  Things  Considered 

com|)lete  skeleton  of  Adam  allached  to  a  slightly 
faded  fig-leaf?  The  whole  paragraph  whicli  I  have 
quoted  is  simply  a  series  of  inconsequent  sentence?, 
all  quite  untrue  in  themselves  and  all  quite  irrele- 
vant to  each  other.  Science  never  said  that  there 
could  have  been  no  Fall.  There  might  have  been 
ten  Falls,  one  on  top  of  the  other,  and  the  thing 
would  have  been  quite  consistent  with  everything 
that  we  know  from  physical  science.  Humanity 
might  have  grown  morally  worse  for  millions  of 
centuries,  and  the  thing  would  in  no  way  have 
contradicted  the  principle  of  Evolution.  Men  of 
science  (not  being  raving  lunatics)  never  said  that 
there  had  been  "an  incessant  rise  in  the  scale 
of  being";  for  an  incessant  rise  would  mean  a 
rise  without  any  relapse  or  failure;  and  physical 
evolution  is  full  of  relapse  and  failure.  There 
were  certainly  some  physical  Falls ;  there  may 
have  been  any  number  of  moral  Falls.  So  that, 
as  I  have  said,  I  am  honestly  bewildered  as  to 
the  meaning  of  such  passages  as  this,  in  which  the 
advanced  person  writes  that  because  geologists 
know  nothing  about  the  Fall,  therefore  any  doc- 
trine of  depravity  is  untrue.  Because  science  has 
not  found  something  which  obviously  it  could  not 
find,  therefore  something  entirely  different  -the 
jxsychological  sense  of  evil  —  is  untrue.  You 
might  sum  up  this  writer's  argument  abrni>tly,  but 
190 


Science  and  Religion 

accurately,  in  some  way  like  this — "We  have  not 
dug  up  the  bones  of  the  Archangel  Gabriel,  who 
presumably  had  none,  therefore  little  boys,  left  to 
themselves,  will  not  be  selfish."  To  me  it  is  all 
wild  and  whirling ;  as  if  a  man  said — "  The 
plumber  can  find  nothing  wrong  with  our  piano ; 
so  I  suppose  that  my  wife  does  love  me." 

I  am  not  going  to  enter  here  into  the  real 
doctrine  of  original  sin,  or  into  that  probably  false 
version  of  it  which  the  New  Theology  writer  calls 
the  doctrine  of  depravity.  But  whatever  else  the 
worst  doctrine  of  depravity  may  have  been,  it  was 
a  product  of  spiritual  conviction ;  it  had  nothing 
to  do  with  remote  physical  origins.  Men  thought 
mankind  wicked  because  they  felt  wicked  them- 
selves. If  a  man  feels  wicked,  I  cannot  see  why 
he  should  suddenly  feel  good  because  somebody 
tells  him  that  his  ancestors  once  had  tails.  Man's 
primary  purity  and  innocence  may  have  dropped 
off  with  his  tail,  for  all  anybody  knows.  The  only 
thing  we  all  know  about  that  primary  purity  and 
innocence  is  that  we  have  not  got  it.  Nothing 
can  be,  in  the  strictest  sense  of  the  word,  more 
comic  than  to  set  so  shadowy  a  thing  as  the  con- 
jectures made  by  the  vaguer  anthropologists  about 
primitive  man  against  so  solid  a  thing  as  the 
human  sense  of  sin.  By  its  nature  the  evidence 
of  Eden  is  something  that  one  cannot  find.  By 
191 


All   Things   Considered 

its  nature  the  evidence  of  sin  is  something  that 
one  cannot  help  finding. 

Some  statements  I  disagree  with ;  others  I  do 
not  understand.  If  a  man  says,  "  I  think  tlie 
liuman  race  would  be  better  if  it  abstained  totally 
from  fermented  liquor,"  I  quite  understand  what 
he  means,  and  how  his  view  could  be  defended. 
If  a  man  says,  "I  wish  to  abolish  beer  because  I 
am  a  temperance  man,"  his  remark  conveys  no 
meaning  to  my  mind.  It  is  like  saying,  "  I  wish 
to  abolish  roads  because  I  am  a  moderate  walker." 
If  a  man  says,  "  I  am  not  a  Trinitarian,"  I  under- 
stand. But  if  he  says  (as  a  lady  once  said  to  me), 
"  I  believe  in  the  Holy  Ghost  in  a  spiritual  sense," 
I  go  away  dazed.  In  what  other  sense  could  one 
believe  in  the  Holy  Ghost  ?  And  I  am  sorry  to 
say  that  this  pamphlet  of  progressive  religious 
views  is  full  of  baffling  observations  of  that  kind. 
What  can  people  mean  when  they  say  that  science 
has  disturbed  their  view  of  sin  ?  What  sort  of 
view  of  sin  can  they  have  had  before  science  dis- 
turbed it?  Did  they  think  that  it  was  something 
to  eat?  When  people  say  that  science  has  shaken 
their  faith  in  immortality,  what  do  they  mean  ? 
Did  they  think  that  immortality  was  a  gas? 

Of  course  the  real  truth  is  that  science  has 
introduced  no  new  principle  into  the  matter  at 
all.  A  man  can  be  a  Christian  to  the  end  of  the 
192 


Science  and   Relio-'ion 

o 

world,  for  the  simple  reason  that  a  man  could 
have  been  an  Atheist  from  the  beginning  of  it. 
The  materialism  of  things  is  on  the  face  of  things  ; 
it  does  not  require  any  science  to  find  it  out.  A 
man  who  has  lived  and  loved  foils  down  dead  and 
the  worms  eat  him.  That  is  Materialism  if  you 
like.  That  is  Atheism  if  you  like.  If  mankind 
has  believed  in  spite  of  that,  it  can  believe  in  spite 
of  anything.  But  why  our  human  lot  is  made  any 
more  hopeless  because  we  know  the  names  of  all 
the  worms  who  eat  him,  or  the  names  of  all  the 
parts  of  him  that  they  eat,  is  to  a  thoughtful  mind 
somewhat  difficult  to  discover.  My  chief  objec- 
tion to  these  semi-scientific  revolutionists  is  that 
they  are  not  at  all  revolutionary.  They  are  the 
parly  of  platitude.  They  do  not  shake  religion : 
rather  religion  seems  to  shake  them.  They  can 
only  answer  the  great  paradox  by  repeating  the 
truism. 


193 


The  Methuselahite         ©        ®        © 

T  SAW  in  a  newspaper  paragraph  the  other  day 
■^  the  following  entertaining  and  deeply  philo- 
sophical incident.  A  man  was  enlisting  as  a 
soldier  at  Portsmouth,  and  some  form  was  put 
before  him  to  be  filled  up,  common,  I  suppose, 
to  all  such  cases,  in  which  was,  among  other 
tilings,  an  inquiry  about  what  was  his  religion. 
\\'ith  an  equal  and  ceremonial  gravity  the  man 
wrote  down  the  word  "  Methuselahite."  Whoever 
looks  over  such  papers  must,  I  should  imagine, 
have  seen  some  rum  religions  in  his  time  ;  unless 
the  Army  is  going  to  the  dogs.  But  with  all 
his  specialist  knowledge  he  could  not  "place" 
Methuselahism  among  what  Bossuet  called  the 
variations  of  Protestantism.  He  felt  a  fervid 
curiosity  about  the  tenets  and  tendencies  of  the 
sect;  and  he  asked  the  soldier  what  it  meant. 
The  soldier  replied  that  it  was  his  religion  "  to 
live  as  long  as  he  could." 

Now,  considered  as  an  incident  m  the  religious 
195 


All   Things   Considered 

history  of  luiropc,  that  answer  of  that  soldier  was 
worth  more  than  a  hundred  cartloads  of  quarterly 
and  monthly  and  weekly  and  daily  papers  discuss- 
ing religious  problems  and  religious  books.  Every 
day  the  daily  paper  reviews  some  new  philosopher 
who  has  some  new  religion  ;  and  there  is  not  in 
the  whole  two  thousand  words  of  the  whole  two 
columns  one  word  as  witty  or  as  wise  as  that  word 
"  Methuselahite."  The  whole  meaning  of  literature 
is  simply  to  cut  a  long  story  short;  that  is  why  our 
modern  books  of  philosophy  are  never  literature. 
That  soldier  had  in  him  the  very  soul  of  literature ; 
he  was  one  of  the  great  phrase-makers  of  modern 
thought,  like  Victor  Hugo  or  Disraeli.  He  found 
one  word  that  defines  the  paganism  of  to-day. 

Henceforward,  when  the  modern  philosophers 
come  to  me  with  their  new  religions  (and  there 
is  always  a  kind  of  queue  of  them  waiting  all 
the  way  down  the  street)  I  shall  anticipate  their 
circumlocutions  and  be  able  to  cut  them  short 
with  a  single  inspired  word.  One  of  them  will 
begin,  "  The  New  Religion,  which  is  based  upon 
that  Primordial  Energy  in  Nature  .  .  ."  "  Methu- 
selahite," I  shall  say  sharply;  "good  morning." 
"  Human  Life,"  another  will  say,  "  Human  Life, 
the  only  ultimate  sanctity,  freed  from  creed  and 
dogma  .  .  ."  "  Methuselahite  ! "  I  shall  yell. 
"Out  you  go!"  "My  religion  is  the  Religion 
196 


The   Methuselahite 

of  Joy,"  a  third  will  explain  (a  bald  old  man 
with  a  cough  and  tinted  glasses),  "  the  Religion 
of  Physical  Pride  and  Rapture,  and  my  .  ,  ." 
"  Methuselahite ! "  I  shall  cry  again,  and  I  shall 
slap  him  boisterously  on  the  back,  and  he  will 
fall  down.  Then  a  pale  young  poet  with  serpentine 
hair  will  come  and  say  to  me  (as  one  did  only  the 
other  day)  :  "  Moods  and  impressions  are  the 
only  realities,  and  these  are  constantly  and  wholly 
changing.  I  could  hardly  therefore  define  my 
religion.  .  .  ."  "  I  can,"  I  should  say,  somewhat 
sternly.  "  Your  religion  is  to  live  a  long  time ; 
and  if  you  stop  here  a  moment  longer  you  won't 
fulfil  it." 

A  new  philosophy  generally  means  in  practice 
the  praise  of  some  old  vice.  We  have  had  the 
sophist  who  defends  cruelty,  and  calls  it  mascu- 
linity. We  have  had  the  sophist  who  defends 
profligacy,  and  calls  it  the  liberty  of  the  emotions. 
We  have  had  the  sophist  who  defends  idleness, 
and  calls  it  art.  It  will  almost  certainly  happen — 
it  can  almost  certainly  be  prophesied — that  in  this 
saturnalia  of  sophistry  there  will  at  some  time 
or  other  arise  a  sophist  who  desires  to  idealise 
cowardice.  And  when  we  are  once  in  this  un- 
healthy world  of  mere  wild  words,  what  a  vast 
deal  there  would  be  to  say  for  cowardice  !  "  Is 
not  life  a  lovely  thing  and  worth  saving?"  the 
197 


All   Things   Considered 

soldier  would  say  as  he  ran  a\v?.y.  "  Should  I 
not  prolong  the  exquisite  miracle  of  conscious- 
ness?" the  householder  would  say  as  he  hid 
under  the  table.  "  As  long  as  there  are  roses 
and  lilies  on  the  earth  shall  I  not  remain  there  ?  " 
would  come  the  voice  of  the  citizen  from  under 
the  bed.  It  would  be  quite  as  easy  to  defend 
the  coward  as  a  kind  of  poet  and  mystic  as  it 
has  been,  in  many  recent  books,  to  defend  the 
emotionalist  as  a  kind  of  poet  and  mystic,  or 
the  tyrant  as  a  kind  of  poet  and  mystic.  When 
that  last  grand  sophistry  and  morbidity  is  preached 
in  a  book  or  on  a  platform,  you  may  depend  upon 
it  there  will  be  a  great  stir  in  its  favour,  that  is, 
a  great  stir  among  the  little  people  who  live  among 
books  and  platforms.  There  will  be  a  new  great 
Religion,  the  Religion  of  Methuselahism :  with 
pomps  and  priests  and  altars.  Its  devout  crusaders 
will  vow  themselves  in  thousands  with  a  great  vow 
to  live  long.  Bat  there  is  one  comfort  :  ihcy 
won't. 

For,  indeed,  the  weakness  of  this  worship  of 
mere  natural  life  (which  is  a  common  enough 
creed  to-day)  is  tlvat  it  ignores  the  paradox  of 
courage  and  fails  in  its  own  aim.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  no  men  would  be  killed  quicker  than 
the  Mcthuselahites.  The  paradox  of  courage  is 
thai  a  man  must  be  a  little  careless  of  his  life 
19S 


The   Methuselahite 

even  in  order  to  keep  it.  And  in  the  very  case 
I  have  quoted  we  may  see  an  example  of  how 
little  the  theory  of  Methuselahism  really  inspires 
our  best  life.  For  there  is  one  riddle  in  that 
case  which  cannot  easily  be  cleared  up.  If  it 
was  the  man's  religion  to  live  as  long  as  he  could, 
why  on  earth  was  he  enlisting  as  a  soldier  ? 


m 


Spiritualism       ®        @  ®        ® 

T  HAVE  received  a  letter  from  a  gentleman  who 
is  very  indignant  at  what  he  considers  my 
flippancy  in  disregarding  or  degrading  Spiritualism. 
I  thought  I  was  defending  Spiritualism  ;  but  I  am 
rather  used  to  being  accused  of  mocking  the  thing 
that  I  set  out  to  justify.  My  fate  in  most  contro- 
versies is  rather  pathetic.  It  is  an  almost  invari- 
able rule  that  the  man  with  whom  I  don't  agree 
thinks  I  am  making  a  fool  of  myself,  and  the  man 
with  whom  I  do  agree  thinks  I  am  making  a  fool 
of  him.  'J'here  seems  to  be  some  sort  of  idea  that 
you  are  not  treating  a  subject  properly  if  you 
eulogise  it  with  fantastic  terms  or  defend  it  by 
grotesque  examples.  Yet  a  truth  is  equally  solemn 
whatever  figure  or  example  its  exponent  adopts. 
It  is  an  equally  awful  truth  that  four  and  four 
make  eight,  whether  you  reckon  the  thing  out  in 
eight  onions  or  eight  angels,  or  eight  bricks  or 
eight  bishops,  or  eight  minor  poets  or  eight  pigs. 
Similarly,  if  it  be  true  that  God  made  all  things, 

201 


All  Things  Considered 

that  grave  fact  can  be  asserted  by  pointing  at  a 
star  or  by  waving  an  umbrella.  But  the  case  is 
stronger  than  this.  There  is  a  distinct  philo- 
so[)hical  advantage  in  using  grotesque  terms  in  a 
serious  discussion. 

I  think  seriously,  on  the  whole,  that  the  more 
serious  is  the  discussion  the  more  grotesque  should 
be  the  terms.  For  this,  as  I  say,  there  is  an 
evident  reason.  For  a  subject  is  really  solemn 
and  important  in  so  far  as  it  applies  to  the  whole 
cosmos,  or  to  some  great  spheres  and  cycles  of 
experience  at  least.  So  far  as  a  thing  is  universal 
it  is  serious.  And  so  far  as  a  thing  is  universal  it 
is  full  of  comic  things.  If  you  take  a  small  thing, 
it  may  be  entirely  serious  :  Napoleon,  for  instance, 
was  a  small  thing,  and  he  was  serious  :  the  same 
applies  to  microbes.  If  you  isolate  a  thing,  you 
may  get  the  pure  essence  of  gravity.  But  if  you 
take  a  large  thing  (such  as  the  Solar  System)  it 
must  be  comic,  at  least  in  parts.  The  germs  are 
serious,  because  they  kill  you.  But  the  stars  are 
funny,  because  they  give  birth  to  life,  and  life 
gives  birlh  to  fun.  If  you  have,  let  us  say,  a 
theory  about  man,  and  if  you  can  only  prove  it 
by  talking  about  Plato  and  George  Washington, 
your  theory  may  be  a  quite  frivolous  thing.  But 
if  you  can  prove  it  by  talking  about  the  butler 
or  the  postman,  then  it  is  serious,  because  it  is 
202 


Spiritualism 

universal.  So  far  from  it  being  irreverent  to  use 
silly  metaphors  on  serious  questions,  it  is  one's  duty 
to  use  silly  metaphors  on  serious  questions.  It  is 
the  test  of  one's  seriousness.  It  is  the  test  cf  a 
responsible  religion  or  theory  whether  it  can  take 
examples  from  pots  and  pans  and  boots  and 
butter-tubs.  It  is  the  test  of  a  good  philosophy 
whether  you  can  defend  it  grotesquely.  It  is  the 
test  of  a  good  religion  whether  you  can  joke 
about  it. 

When  I  was  a  very  young  journalist  I  used  to 
be  irritated  at  a  peculiar  habit  of  printers,  a  habit 
which  most  persons  of  a  tendency  similar  to  mine 
have  probably  noticed  also.  It  goes  along  with 
the  fixed  belief  of  printers  that  to  be  a  Rationalist 
is  the  same  thing  as  to  be  a  Nationalist.  I  mean 
the  printer's  tendency  to  turn  the  word  "cosmic" 
into  the  word  "comic."  It  annoyed  me  at  the 
time.  But  since  then  I  have  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  the  printers  were  right.  The  demo- 
cracy is  always  right.  Whatever  is  cosmic  is 
comic. 

Moreover,  there  is  another  reason  that  makes  it 
almost  inevitable  that  we  should  defend  grotesquely 
what  we  believe  seriously.  It  is  that  all  grotesque- 
ness  is  itself  intimately  related  to  seriousness. 
Unless  a  thing  is  dignified,  it  cannot  be  un- 
dignifietl.  Why  is  it  funny  that  a  man  should  sit 
203 


All   Things   Considered 

down  suddenly  in  the  street  ?  There  is  only  one 
possible  or  intelligent  reason:  that  man  is  the 
image  of  God.  It  is  not  funny  that  anything  else 
should  fall  down ;  only  that  a  man  should  fall 
down.  No  one  sees  anything  funny  in  a  tree 
falling  down.  No  one  sees  a  delicate  absurdity 
in  a  stone  falling  down.  No  man  stops  in  the 
road  and  roars  with  laughter  at  the  sight  of  the 
snow  coming  down.  The  fall  of  thunderbolts  is 
treated  with  some  gravit)-.  The  fall  of  roofs  and 
high  buildings  is  taken  seriously.  It  is  only  when 
a  man  tumbles  down  that  we  laugh.  Why  do  we 
laugh  ?  Because  it  is  a  grave  religious  matter  :  it 
is  the  Fall  of  Man.  Only  man  can  be  absurd  :  for 
only  man  can  be  dignified. 

The  above,  which  occupies  the  great  part  of  my 
article,  is  a  parenthesis.  It  is  time  that  I  returned 
to  my  choleric  correspondent  who  rebuked  me  for 
being  too  frivolous  about  the  problem  of  Spirit- 
ualism. My  correspondent,  who  is  evidently  an 
intelligent  man,  is  very  angry  with  me  indeed. 
He  uses  the  strongest  language.  He  says  1 
remind  him  of  a  brother  of  his;  which  seems  to 
open  an  abyss  or  vista  of  infamy.  The  main  sub- 
stance of  his  attack  resolves  itself  into  two  pro- 
positions. First,  he  asks  me  what  right  I  have  to 
talk  about  Spiritualism  at  all,  as  I  admit  I  have 
never  been  to  a  seance.     This  is  all  very  well,  but 

204 


Spiritualism 

there  are  a  good  many  things  to  wlnVh  I  have 
never  been,  but  I  have  not  the  smallest  intention 
of  leaving  off  talking  about  them.  I  refuse  (for 
instance)  to  leave  off  talking  about  the  Siege  of 
Troy.  I  decline  to  be  mute  in  the  matter  of  the 
French  Revolution.  I  will  not  be  silenced  on  the 
late  indefensible  assassination  of  Julius  Caesar.  If 
nobody  has  any  right  to  judge  of  Spiritualism 
except  a  man  who  has  been  to  a  seance,  the  results, 
logically  speaking,  are  rather  serious  :  it  would 
almost  seem  as  if  nobody  had  any  right  to  judge 
of  Christianity  who  had  not  been  to  the  first 
meeting  at  Pentecost.  Which  would  be  dreadful. 
I  conceive  myself  capable  of  forming  my  opinion 
of  Spiritualism  without  seeing  spirits,  just  as  I  form 
my  opinion  of  the  Japanese  War  without  seeing 
the  Japanese,  or  my  opinion  of  American  million- 
aires without  (thank  God)  seeing  an  American 
millionaire.  Blessed  are  they  who  have  not  seen 
and  yet  have  believed :  a  passage  which  some 
have  considered  as  a  prophecy  of  modern 
journalism. 

But  my  correspondent's  second  objection  is 
more  important.  He  charges  me  with  actually 
ignoring  the  value  of  communication  (if  it  exists) 
between  this  world  and  the  next.  I  do  not  ignore 
it.  But  I  do  say  this — That  a  different  principle 
attaches  to  investigation  in  this  spiritual  field  from 
205 


All  Things  Considered 

investigation  in  any  other.  If  a  man  baits  a  line 
for  fish,  the  fish  will  come,  even  if  lie  declares 
there  are  no  such  things  as  fishes.  If  a  man  limes 
a  twig  for  birds,  the  birds  will  be  caught,  even  if 
he  thinks  it  superstitious  to  believe  in  birds  at  all. 
But  a  man  cannot  bait  a  line  for  souls.  A  man 
cannot  lime  a  twig  to  catch  gods.  All  wise  schools 
have  agreed  that  this  latter  capture  depends  to 
some  extent  on  the  faith  of  the  capturer.  So  it 
comes  to  this:  If  you  have  no  faith  in  the  spirits 
your  appeal  is  in  vain ;  and  if  you  have — is  it 
needed?  If  you  do  not  believe,  you  cannot.  If 
you  do — you  will  not. 

That  is  the  real  distinction  between  investiga- 
tion in  this  department  and  investigation  in  any 
other.  The  priest  calls  to  the  goddess,  for  the 
same  reason  that  a  man  calls  to  his  wife,  because 
he  knows  she  is  there.  If  a  man  kept  on  shouting 
out  very  loud  the  single  word  "  Maria,"  merely 
with  the  object  of  discovering  whether  if  he  did  it 
long  enough  some  woman  of  that  name  would 
come  and  marry  him,  he  would  be  more  or  less  in 
the  position  of  the  modern  spiritualist.  The  old 
religionist  cried  out  for  his  God.  The  new 
religionist  cries  out  for  some  god  to  be  his.  Tbe 
whole  point  of  religion  as  it  has  hitherto  existed  in 
the  world  was  that  you  knew  all  about  your  gods, 
even  before  you  saw  them,  if  indeed  you  ever  did. 

306 


Spiritualism 

Spiritualism  seems  to  me  absolutely  right  on  all  its 
mystical  side.  The  supernatural  part  of  it  seems 
to  me  quite  natural.  The  incredible  part  of  it 
seems  to  me  obviously  true.  But  I  think  it  so  far 
dangerous  or  unsatisfactory  that  it  is  in  some 
degree  scientific.  It  inquires  wliether  its  gods 
are  worth  inquiring  into.  A  man  (of  a  certain 
age)  may  look  into  the  eyes  of  his  lady-love  to  see 
that  they  are  beautiful.  But  no  normal  lady  will 
allow  that  young  man  to  look  into  her  eyes  to  see 
whether  they  are  beautiful.  The  same  vanity  and 
idiosyncrasy  has  been  generally  observed  in  gods. 
Praise  them  ;  or  leave  them  alone ;  but  do  not 
look  for  them  unless  you  know  they  are  there. 
Do  not  look  for  them  unless  you  want  them.  It 
annoys  them  very  much. 


207 


The  Error  of  Impartiality      @        ©        © 

'T^HE  refusal  of  the  jurors  in  the  Thaw  trial  to 
come  to  an  agreement  is  certainly  a  some- 
what amusing  sequel  to  the  frenzied  and  even 
flxntastic  caution  with  which  they  were  selected. 
Jurymen  were  set  aside  for  reasons  which  seem 
to  have  only  the  very  wildest  relation  to  the  case 
— reasons  which  we  cannot  conceive  as  giving  any 
human  being  a  real  bias.  It  may  be  questioned 
whether  the  exaggerated  theory  of  impartiality  in 
an  arbiter  or  juryman  may  not  be  carried  so 
far  as  to  be  more  unjust  than  partiality  itself. 
What  people  call  impartiality  may  simply  mean 
indifference,  and  what  people  call  partiality  may 
simply  mean  mental  activity.  It  is  sometimes 
made  an  objection,  for  instance,  to  a  juror  that 
he  has  formed  some  priiiux-facie  opinion  upon  a 
case  :  if  he  can  be  forced  under  sharp  questioning 
to  admit  that  he  has  formed  such  an  opinion, 
he  is  regarded  as  manifestly  unfit  to  conduct  the 
inquiry.  Surely  this  is  unsound.  If  his  bias  is 
P  209 


All  Things  Considered 

one  of  interest,  of  class,  or  creed,  or  notorious 
l)ropaganda,  then  that  fact  certainly  proves  that 
he  is  not  an  impartial  arbiter.  But  the  mere  fact 
that  he  did  form  some  temporary  impression  from 
the  first  facts  as  far  as  he  knew  them — this  does 
not  prove  that  he  is  not  an  imiiartial  arbiter — it 
only  proves  that  he  is  not  a  cold-blooded  fool. 

If  we  walk  down  the  street,  taking  all  the  jury- 
men who  have  not  formed  oi)inions  and  leaving 
all  the  jurymen  who  have  formed  opinions,  it 
seems  highly  probable  that  we  shall  only  succeed 
in  taking  all  the  stupid  jurymen  and  leaving  all 
the  thoughtful  ones.  Provided  that  the  opinion 
formed  is  really  of  this  airy  and  abstract  kind, 
provided  that  it  has  no  suggestion  of  settled  motive 
or  prejudice,  we  might  well  regard  it  not  merely 
as  a  promise  of  capacity,,  but  literally  as  a  promise 
of  justice.  The  man  who  took  the  trouble  to 
deduce  from  the  police  reports  would  probably 
be  the  man  who  would  take  the  trouble  to  deduce 
further  and  different  things  from  the  evidence. 
The  man  who  had  the  sense  to  form  an  opinion 
would  be  the  man  who  would  have  the  sense  to 
alter  it. 

It  is  worth  while  to  dwell  for  a  moment  on 
this  minor  aspect  of  the  matter  because  the  error 
about  impartiality  and  justice  is  by  no  means 
confined  to  a  criminal  question.     In  much  more 

2IO 


The   Error   of  Impartiality 

serious  matters  it  is  assumed  that  the  agnostic  is 
impartial ;  whereas  the  agnostic  is  merely  ignorant. 
The  logical  outcome  of  the  fastidiousness  about 
the  Thaw  jurors  would  be  that  the  case  ought  to 
be  tried  by  Esquimaux,  or  Hottentots,  or  savages 
from  the  Cannibal  Islands — by  some  class  of 
people  who  could  have  no  conceivable  interest 
in  the  parties,  and  moreover,  no  conceivable 
interest  in  the  case.  The  pure  and  starry  per- 
fection of  impartiality  would  be  reached  by  people 
who  not  only  had  no  opinion  before  they  had 
heard  the  case,  but  who  also  had  no  opinion  after 
they  had  heard  it.  In  the  same  way,  there  is  in 
modern  discussions  of  religion  and  philosophy  an 
absurd  assumption  that  a  man  is  in  some  way  just 
and  well-poised  because  he  has  come  to  no  con- 
clusion ;  and  that  a  man  is  in  some  way  knocked 
off  the  list  of  fair  judges  because  he  has  come 
to  a  conclusion.  It  is  assumed  that  the  sceptic 
has  no  bias ;  whereas  he  has  a  very  obvious  bias 
in  favour  of  scepticism.  I  remember  once  arguing 
with  an  honest  young  atheist,  who  was  very  much 
shocked  at  my  disputing  some  of  the  assumptions 
which  were  absolute  sanctities  to  him  (such  as  the 
quite  unproved  proposition  of  the  independence 
of  matter  and  the  quite  improbable  proposition 
of  its  power  to  originate  mind),  and  he  at  length 
fell  back  upon  this  question,  which  he  delivered 


Ml   Things  Considered 


with  an  honourable  heat  of  defiance  and  indigna- 
tion :  "Well,  can  you  tell  mc  any  man  of  intellect, 
great  in  science  or  philosophy,  who  accepted  the 
miraculous  ?  "  I  said,  "  With  pleasure.  Descartes, 
Dr.  Johnson,  Newton,  Faraday,  Newman,  Glad- 
stone, Pasteur,  Browning,  Bruneti^re — as  many 
more  as  you  please."  To  which  that  quite 
admirable  and  idealistic  young  man  made  this 
astonishing  reply — "  Oh,  but  of  course  they  had 
to  say  that ;  they  were  Christians."  First  he 
challenged  me  to  find  a  black  swan,  and  then 
he  ruled  out  all  my  swans  because  they  were 
black.  The  fact  that  all  these  great  intellects 
had  come  to  the  Christian  view  was  somehow  or 
other  a  proof  either  that  they  were  not  great 
intellects  or  that  they  had  not  really  come  to  that 
view.  The  argument  thus  stood  in  a  charmingly 
convenient  form  :  "  All  men  that  count  have  come 
to  my  conclusion ;  for  if  they  come  to  your  con- 
clusion they  do  not  count." 

It  did  not  seem  to  occur  to  such  contro- 
versialists that  if  Cardinal  Newman  was  really  a 
man  of  intellect,  the  fact  that  he  adhered  to 
dogmatic  religion  proved  exactly  as  much  as 
the  fact  that  Professor  Huxley,  another  man  of 
intellect,  found  that  he  could  not  adhere  to 
dogmatic  religion;  that  is  to  say  (as  I  cheerfully 
admit),  it   proved  precious  little  either  way.     If 


The  Error  of  Impartiality 

there  is  one  class  of  men  whom  history  has 
proved  especially  and  supremely  capable  of  going 
quite  wrong  in  all  directions,  it  is  the  class  of 
highly  intellectual  men.  I  would  always  prefer 
to  go  by  the  bulk  of  humanity ;  that  is  why  I 
am  a  democrat.  But  whatever  be  the  truth  about 
exceptional  intelligence  and  the  masses,  it  is 
manifestly  most  unreasonable  that  intelligent  men 
should  be  divided  upon  the  absurd  modern 
principle  of  regarding  every  clever  man  who 
cannot  make  up  his  mind  as  an  impartial  judge, 
and  regarding  every  clever  man  who  can  make 
up  his  mind  as  a  servile  fanatic.  As  it  is,  we 
seem  to  regard  it  as  a  positive  objection  to  a 
reasoner  that  he  has  taken  one  side  or  the  other. 
We  regard  it  (in  other  words)  as  a  positive 
objection  to  a  reasoner  that  he  has  contrived  to 
reach  the  object  of  his  reasoning.  We  call  a  man 
a  bigot  or  a  slave  of  dogma  because  he  is  a 
thinker  who  has  thought  thoroughly  and  to  a 
definite  end.  We  say  that  the  juryman  is  not 
a  juryman  because  he  has  brought  in  a  verdict. 
We  say  that  the  judge  is  not  a  judge  because  he 
gives  judgment.  We  say  that  the  sincere  believer 
has  no  right  to  vote,  simply  because  he  has  voted. 


213 


Phonetic  Spelling       @        ®        ® 

A  CORRESPONDENT  asks  me  to  make  more 
"^^  lucid  my  remarks  about  phonetic  spelling. 
I  have  no  detailed  objection  to  items  of  spelling- 
reform  :  my  objection  is  to  a  general  principle; 
and  it  is  this.  It  seems  to  me  that  what  is  really 
wrong  with  all  modern  and  highly  civilised  language 
is  that  it  does  so  largely  consist  of  dead  words. 
Half  our  speech  consists  of  similes  that  remind 
us  of  no  similarity  ;  of  pictorial  phrases  that  call 
up  no  picture;  of  historical  allusions  the  origin 
of  which  we  have  forgotten.  Take  any  instance 
on  which  the  eye  happens  to  alight.  I  saw  in 
the  paper  some  days  ago  that  the  well-known 
leader  of  a  certain  religious  party  wrote  to  a 
supporter  of  his  the  following  curious  words :  *'  I 
have  not  forgotten  the  talented  way  in  which  you 
held  up  the  banner  at  Birkenhead."  Taking  the 
ordinary  vague  meaning  of  the  word  "  talented," 
there  is  no  coherency  in  the  picture.  The  trumpets 
blow,   the   spears    shake  and   glitter,  and  in    the 

21$ 


All  Things   Considered 

lliick  of  the  purple  battle  there  stands  a  gentle- 
man holding  up  a  banner  in  a  talented  way.  And 
when  we  come  to  the  original  force  of  the  word 
"  talent"  the  matter  is  worse  :  a  talent  is  a  Greek 
coin  used  in  the  New  Testament  as  a  symbol 
of  the  mental  capital  committed  to  an  individual 
at  birth.  If  the  religious  leader  in  question  had 
really  meant  anything  by  his  phrases,  he  would 
have  been  puzzled  to  know  how  a  man  could  use 
a  Greek  coin  to  hold  up  a  banner.  But  really 
he  meant  nothing  by  his  phrases.  "  Holding  up 
the  banner "  was  to  him  a  colourless  term  for 
doing  the  proper  thing,  and  "  talented "  was  a 
colourless  term  for  doing  it  successfully. 

Now  my  own  fear  touching  anytliing  in  the  way 
of  phonetic  spelling  is  that  it  would  simply  increase 
this  tendency  to  use  words  as  counters  and  not 
as  coins.  The  original  life  in  a  word  (as  in  the 
word  "  talent")  burns  low  as  it  is  :  sensible  spelling 
might  extinguish  it  altogether.  Suppose  any  sen- 
tence you  like :  suppose  a  man  says,  "  Republics 
generally  encourage  holidays."  It  looks  like  the 
top  line  of  a  copy-book.  Now,  it  is  perfectly  true 
that  if  you  wrote  that  sentence  exactly  as  it  is 
pronounced,  even  by  highly  educated  people,  the 
sentence  would  run  :  "  Ripubliks  jenrally  inkurrij 
hollidies."  It  looks  ugly  :  but  I  have  not  the 
smallest  objection  to  ugliness.  My  objection  is 
?i6 


Phonetic   Spelling 

that  these  four  words  have  each  a  history  and 
hidden  treasures  in  them  :  that  this  history  and 
hidden  treasure  (which  we  tend  to  forget  too  much 
as  it  is)  phonetic  speUing  tends  to  make  us  forget 
altogether.  Republic  does  not  mean  merely  a 
mode  of  political  choice.  RepubHc  (as  we  see 
when  we  look  at  the  structure  of  the  word)  means 
the  Public  Thing:  the  abstraction  which  is  us  all. 
A  Republican  is  not  a  man  who  wants  a  Con- 
stitution with  a  President.  A  Republican  is  a  man 
who  prefers  to  think  of  Government  as  impersonal ; 
he  is  opposed  to  the  Royalist,  who  prefers  to  think 
of  Government  as  personal.  Take  the  second 
word,  "generally."  This  is  always  used  as  mean- 
ing "in  the  majority  of  cases."  But^  again,  if  v/e 
look  at  the  shape  and  spelling  of  the  word,  we 
shall  see  that  "  generally  "  means  something  more 
like  "  generically,"  and  is  akin  to  such  words  as 
"generation"  or  " regenerate."  "Pigs  are  gene- 
rally dirty  "  does  not  mean  that  pigs  are,  in  the 
majority  of  cases,  dirty,  but  that  pigs  as  a  race 
or  genus  are  dirty,  that  pigs  as  pigs  are  dirty — 
an  important  philosophical  distinction.  Take  the 
third  word,  "  encourage."  The  word  "  encourage  " 
is  used  in  such  modern  sentences  in  the  merely 
automatic  sense  of  promote  ;  to  encourage  poetry 
means  merely  to  advance  or  assist  poetry.  But  to 
encourage  poetry  means  properly  to  put  courage 

217 


All   Things   Considered 

into  poetry — a  fine  idea.  Take  the  fourth  word, 
"  holidays."  As  long  as  that  word  remains,  it  will 
always  answer  the  ignorant  slander  which  asserts 
that  religion  was  opposed  to  human  cheerfulness ; 
that  word  will  always  assert  that  when  a  day  is 
holy  it  should  also  be  happy.  Properly  spelt, 
these  words  all  tell  a  sublime  story,  like  West- 
minster Abbey.  Phonetically  spelt,  they  might 
lose  the  last  traces  of  any  such  story.  "  Generally  " 
is  an  exalted  metaphysical  term ;  "  jenrally "  is 
not.  If  you  "encourage"  a  man,  you  pour  into 
him  the  chivalry  of  a  hundred  princes ;  this 
does  not  happen  if  you  merely  "  inkurrij  "  him. 
"  Republics,"  if  spelt  phonetically,  might  actually 
forget  to  be  public.  "  Holidays,"  if  spelt  phoneti- 
cally, might  actually  forget  to  be  holy. 

Here  is  a  case  that  has  just  occurred.  A  certain 
magistrate  told  somebody  whom  he  was  examining 
in  court  that  he  or  she  "  should  always  be  polite 
to  the  police."  I  do  not  know  whether  the  magis- 
trate noticed  the  circumstance,  but  the  word 
"polite"  and  the  word  "police"  have  the  same 
origin  and  meaning.  Politeness  means  the  atmo- 
sphere and  ritual  of  the  city,  the  symbol  of  human 
civilisation.  The  policeman  means  the  representa- 
tive and  guardian  of  the  city,  the  symbol  of  human 
civilisation.  Yet  it  may  be  doubted  whether  the 
two  ideas  are  commonly  connected  in  the  mind. 
ai5 


Phonetic  Spelling 

It  is  probable  that  we  often  hear  of  politeness 
without  thinking  of  a  policeman  ;  it  is  even  possible 
that  our  eyes  often  alight  upon  a  policeman  with- 
out our  thoughts  instantly  flying  to  the  subject 
of  politeness.  Yet  the  idea  of  the  sacred  city  is 
not  only  the  link  of  them  both,  it  is  the  only 
serious  justification  and  the  only  serious  corrective 
of  them  both.  If  politeness  means  too  often  a 
mere  frippery,  it  is  because  it  has  not  enough  to 
do  with  serious  patriotism  and  public  dignity;  if 
policemen  are  coarse  or  casual,  it  is  because  they 
are  not  sufficiently  convinced  that  they  are  the 
servants  of  the  beautiful  city  and  the  agents  of 
sweetness  and  light.  Politeness  is  not  really  a 
frippery.  Politeness  is  not  really  even  a  thing 
merely  suave  and  deprecating.  Politeness  is  an 
armed  guard,  stern  and  splendid  and  vigilant, 
watching  over  all  the  ways  of  men  ;  in  other  words, 
politeness  is  a  policeman.  A  policeman  is  not 
merely  a  heavy  man  with  a  truncheon  :  a  police- 
man is  a  machine  for  the  smoothing  and  sweetening 
of  the  accidents  of  everyday  existence.  In  other 
words,  a  policeman  is  politeness  :  a  veiled  image 
of  politeness — sometimes  impenetrably  veiled.  But 
my  point  is  here  that  by  losing  the  original  idea 
of  the  city,  which  is  the  force  and  youth  of  both 
the  words,  both  the  things  actually  degenerate. 
Our  politeness  loses  all  manliness  because  we 
219 


All  Things  Considered 

forget  that  pohteness  is  only  the  Greek  for  patriot- 
ism. Our  policemen  lose  all  delicacy  because  we 
forget  that  a  policeman  is  only  the  Greek  for 
something  civilised.  A  policeman  should  often 
have  the  functions  of  a  knight-errant,  A  police- 
man should  always  have  the  elegance  of  a  knight- 
errant.  But  I  am  not  sure  that  he  would  succeed 
any  the  better  in  remembering  this  obligation  of 
romantic  grace  if  his  name  were  spelt  phonetically, 
supposing  that  it  could  be  spelt  phonetically. 
Some  spelling-reformers,  I  am  to'd,  in  the  poorer 
parts  of  London  do  spell  his  name  phonetically, 
very  phonetically.  They  call  him  a  "  pleeceman," 
Thus  the  whole  romance  of  the  ancient  city  dis- 
appears from  the  word ;  and  the  policeman's 
reverent  courtesy  of  demeanour  deserts  him  quite 
suddenly.  This  does  seem  to  me  the  case  against 
any  extreme  revolution  in  spelling.  If  you  spell 
a  word  wrong  you  have  some  temptation  to  think 
it  wrong. 


Humanitarianism  and  Strength    0        O 

OOMERODY  writes  complaining  of  something 
I  said  about  progress.  I  have  forgotten  what 
I  said,  but  I  am  quite  certain  that  it  was  (Hke  a 
certain  Mr.  Douglas  in  a  poem  which  I  have  also 
forgotten)  tender  and  true.  In  any  case,  what 
I  say  now  is  this.  Human  history  is  so  rich  and 
com})licated  that  you  can  make  out  a  case  for  any 
course  of  improvement  or  retrogression.  I  could 
make  out  that  the  world  has  been  growing  more 
democratic,  for  the  English  franchise  has  certainly 
grown  more  democratic.  I  could  also  make  out 
that  the  world  has  been  growing  more  aristocratic, 
for  the  English  Public  Schools  have  certainly 
grown  more  aristocratic.  I  could  i)rove  the 
decline  of  militarism  by  the  decline  of  flogging ; 
I  could  prove  the  increase  of  mihtarism  by  the 
increase  of  standing  armies  and  conscription. 
But  I  can  prove  anytliing  in  this  way.  I  can 
prove   that  the  world    has    always  been   growing 

221 


All   Things   Considered 

greener.  Only  lately  men  have  invented  absinthe 
and  the  IVcsfminsfcr  Gazette.  I  could  prove  the 
world  has  grown  less  green.  There  are  uo  more 
Robin  Hood  foresters,  and  fields  are  being  covered 
with  houses.  I  could  show  that  the  world  was 
less  red  wiih  khaki  or  more  red  with  the  new 
penny  stamps.  But  in  all  cases  progress  means 
progress  only  in  some  particular  thing.  Have 
you  ever  noticed  that  strange  line  of  Tennyson, 
in  which  he  confesses,  half  consciously,  how  very 
conventional  progress  is  ? — 

"  Let  the  great  world  spin  fur  ever  down  the  ringing 
grooves  of  change." 

Even  in  praising  change,  he  takes  for  a  simile  the 
most  unchanging  thing.  He  calls  our  modern 
change  a  groove.  And  it  is  a  groove;  perhaps 
there  was  never  anything  so  groovy. 

Nothing  would  induce  me  in  so  idle  a  monologue 
as  this  to  discuss  adequately  a  great  political  matter 
like  the  question  of  the  military  punishments  in 
Egypt.  But  I  may  suggest  one  broad  reality  to 
be  observed  by  both  sides,  and  which  is,  generally 
speaking,  observed  by  neither.  ^Vhatever  else  is 
right,  it  is  utterly  wrong  to  employ  the  argument 
that  we  Europeans  must  do  to  savages  and  Asiatics 
whatever  savages  and  Asiatics  do  to  us.     I  have 


Humanitarianism  and  Strength 

even  seen  some  controversialists  use  the  metaphor, 
"  We  must  fight  them  with  their  own  weapons." 
Very  well;  let  those  controversialists  take  their 
metaphor,  and  take  it  literally.  Let  us  fight  the 
Soudanese  with  their  own  weapons.  Their  own 
weapons  are  large,  very  clumsy  knives,  with  an 
occasional  old-fashioned  gun.  Their  own  weapons 
are  also  torture  and  slavery.  If  we  fight  them 
with  torture  and  slavery,  we  shall  be  fighting 
badly,  precisely  as  if  we  fought  them  with  clumsy 
knives  and  old  guns.  That  is  the  whole  strength 
of  our  Christian  civilisation,  that  it  does  fight  with 
its  own  weapons  and  not  with  other  people's.  It 
is  not  true  that  superiority  suggests  a  tit  for  tat. 
It  is  not  true  that  if  a  small  hooligan  puts  his 
tongue  out  at  the  Lord  Chief  Justice,  the  Lord 
Chief  Justice  immediately  realises  that  his  only 
chance  of  maintaining  his  position  is  to  put  his 
tongue  out  at  the  little  hooligan.  The  hooligan 
may  or  may  not  have  any  respect  at  all  for  the 
Lord  Chief  Justice :  that  is  a  matter  which  we 
may  contentedly  leave  as  a  solemn  psychological 
mystery.  But  if  the  hooligan  has  any  respect 
at  all  for  the  Lord  Chief  Justice,  that  respect 
is  certainly  extended  to  the  Lord  Chief  Justice 
entirely  because  he  does  not  put  his  tongue 
out. 

Exactly  in   the   same  way  the   ruder   or   more 
223 


All  Things   Considered 

sluggish  races  regard  the  civiHsation  of  Christen- 
dom. If  they  have  any  respect  for  it,  it  is  precisely 
because  it  does  not  use  their  own  coarse  and  cruel 
expedients.  According  to  some  modern  moralists, 
whenever  Zulus  cut  off  the  heads  of  dead  English- 
men, Englishmen  must  cut  off  tlie  heads  of  dead 
Zulus.  Whenever  Arabs  or  Egyptians  constantly 
use  the  whip  to  their  slaves,  Englishmen  must 
use  the  whip  to  their  subjects.  And  on  a  similar 
principle  (I  suppose),  whenever  an  English  Admiral 
has  to  fight  cannibals  tlie  English  Admiral  ought 
to  eat  them.  However  unattractive  a  menu  con- 
sisting entirely  of  barbaric  kings  may  ajipear  to 
an  English  gentleman,  he  must  try  to  sit  down  to 
it  with  an  a[)petite.  He  must  fight  the  Sandwich 
Islanders  with  their  own  weapons ;  and  their  own 
weapons  are  knives  and  forks.  But  the  truth  of 
the  matter  is,  of  course,  that  to  do  this  kind  of 
thing  is  to  break  the  whole  spell  of  our  supremacy. 
All  the  mystery  of  the  white  man,  all  the  fearful 
poetry  of  the  white  man,  so  far  as  it  exists  in  the 
eyes  of  these  savages,  consists  in  the  fact  that  we 
do  not  do  such  things.  The  Zulus  point  at  us 
and  say,  "  Observe  the  advent  of  these  inexplicable 
demi-gods,  these  magicians,  who  do  not  cut  off 
the  noses  of  their  enemies."  The  Soudanese  say 
to  each  other,  "This  hardy  people  never  flogs  its 
servants ;  it  is  superior  to  the  simplest  and  most 

224 


Humanitarianism  and  Strength 

obvious  human  pleasures."  And  the  cannibals 
say,  "  The  austere  and  terrible  race,  the  race  that 
denies  itself  even  boiled  missionary,  is  upon  us : 
let  us  flee." 

Whether  or  no  these  details  are  a  little  con- 
jectural, the  general  proposition  I  suggest  is  the 
plainest  common  sense.  The  elements  that  make 
Europe  upon  the  whole  the  most  humanitarian 
civilisation  are  precisely  the  elements  that  make 
it  upon  the  whole  the  strongest.  For  the  power 
•which  makes  a  man  able  to  entertain  a  good 
impulse  is  the  same  as  that  which  enables  him 
to  make  a  good  gun;  it  is  imagination.  It  is 
imagination  that  makes  a  man  outwit  his  enem}', 
and  it  is  imagination  that  makes  him  spare  his 
enemy.  It  is  precisely  because  this  picturing  of 
the  other  man's  point  of  view  is  in  the  main  a 
thing  in  which  Christians  and  Europeans  specialise 
that  Christians  and  Europeans,  with  all  their  faults, 
have  carried  to  such  perfection  both  the  arts  of 
peace  and  war. 

They  alone  have  invented  machine-guns,  and 
they  alone  have  invented  ambulances ;  they  have 
invented  ambulances  (strange  as  it  may  sound)  for 
the  same  reason  for  which  they  have  invented 
machine-guns.  Both  involve  a  vivid  calculation 
of  remote  events.  It  is  precisely  because  the 
East,  with  all  its  wisdom,  is  cruel  that  the  East, 
Q  225 


All  Things  Considered 

with  all  its  wisdom,  is  weak.  And  it  is  precisely 
because  savages  are  pitiless  that  they  are  still — 
merely  savages.  If  they  could  imagine  their 
enemy's  sufferings  they  could  also  imagine  his 
tactics.  If  Zulus  did  not  cut  off  the  Englishman's 
head  they  might  really  borrow  it.  For  if  you  do 
not  understand  a  man  you  cannot  crush  him. 
And  if  you  do  understand  him,  very  probably 
you  will  not. 

When  I  was  about  seven  years  old  I  used  to 
think  that  the  chief  modern  danger  was  a  danger 
of  over-civilisation,  I  am  inclined  to  think  now 
that  the  chief  modern  danger  is  that  of  a  slow 
return  towards  barbarism,  just  such  a  return 
towards  barbarism  as  is  indicated  in  the  sugges- 
tions of  barbaric  retaliation  of  which  I  have  just 
spoken.  Civilisation  in  the  best  sense  merely 
means  the  full  authority  of  the  human  spirit  over 
all  externals.  Barbarism  means  the  worship  of 
those  externals  in  their  crude  and  unconquered 
state.  Barbarism  means  the  worship  of  Nature  ; 
and  in  recent  poetry,  science,  and  philosophy 
there  has  been  too  much  of  the  worship  of  Nature. 
Wherever  men  begin  to  talk  much  and  with  great 
solemnity  about  the  forces  outside  man,  the  note 
of  it  is  barbaric.  When  men  talk  much  about 
heredity  and  environment  they  are  almost  bar- 
barians.    The  modern  men  of  science  are  many 

226 


Humanitarianism  and  Strength 

of  them  almost  barbarians.  Mr.  Blatchford  is 
in  great  clanger  of  becoming  a  barbarian.  For 
barbarians  (especially  the  truly  squalid  and  un- 
happy barbarians)  are  always  talking  about  these 
scientific  subjects  from  morning  till  night.  That 
is  why  they  remain  squalid  and  unhappy ;  that 
is  why  they  remain  barbarians,  Hottentots  are 
always  talking  about  heredity,  like  Mr.  Blatchford, 
Sandwich  Islanders  are  always  talking  about 
environment,  like  Mr.  Suthers.  Savages  — those 
that  are  truly  stunted  or  depraved — dedicate  nearly 
all  their  tales  and  sayings  to  the  subject  of  physical 
kinship,  of  a  curse  on  this  or  that  tribe,  of  a  taint 
in  this  or  that  family,  of  the  invincible  law  of 
blood,  of  the  unavoidable  evil  of  places.  The'^ 
true  savage  is  a  slave,  and  is  always  talking  about 
what  he  must  do  ;  the  true  civilised  man  is  a  free 
man,  and  is  always  talking  about  what  he  may  do. 
Hence  all  the  Zola  heredity  and  Ibsen  heredity 
that  has  been  written  in  our  time  affects  me  as 
not  merely  evil,  but  as  essentially  ignorant  and 
retrogressive.  This  sort  of  science  is  almost  the 
only  thing  that  can  with  strict  propriety  be  called 
reactionary.  Scientific  determinism  is  simply  the 
primal  twilight  of  all  mankind ;  and  some  men 
seem  to  be  returning  to  it. 

Another   savage    trait   of  our   time    is  the  dis- 
position to  talk  about  material  substances  instead 
227 


All  Things  Considered 

of  about  ideas.  The  old  civilisation  talked  about 
the  sin  of  gluttony  or  excess.  We  talk  about  the 
Problem  of  Drink — as  if  drink  could  be  a  problem. 
When  people  have  come  to  call  the  problem  of 
human  intemperance  the  Problem  of  Drink,  and 
to  talk  about  curing  it  by  attacking  the  drink 
traffic,  they  have  reached  quite  a  dim  stage  of 
barbarism.  The  thing  is  an  inverted  form  of 
fetish  worship  ;  it  is  no  sillier  to  say  that  a  bottle 
is  a  god  than  to  say  that  a  bottle  is  a  devil.  The 
people  who  talk  about  the  curse  of  drink  will 
probably  progress  down  that  dark  hill.  In  a 
little  while  we  shall  have  them  calling  the  practice 
of  wife-beating  the  Problem  of  Pokers ;  the  habit 
of  housebreaking  will  be  called  the  Problem  of 
the  Skeleton-Key  Trade ;  and  for  all  I  know  they 
may  try  to  prevent  forgery  by  shutting  up  all  the 
stationers'  shops  by  Act  of  Parliament. 

I  cannot  help  thinking  that  there  is  some  shadow 
of  this  uncivilised  materialism  lying  at  present  upon 
a  much  more  dignified  and  valuable  cause.  Every 
one  is  talking  just  now  about  the  desirability  of 
ingeminating  peace  and  averting  war.  But  even 
war  and  peace  are  physical  states  rather  than 
moral  states,  and  in  talking  about  them  only  we 
have  by  no  means  got  to  the  bottom  of  the 
matter.  How,  for  instance,  do  we  as  a  matter 
of  flict  create  peace  in  one  single  community? 
22S 


Humanitarianism  and  Strength 

We  do  not  do  it  by  vaguely  telling  every  one 
to  avoid  fighting  and  to  submit  to  anything  that 
is  done  to  him.  We  do  it  by  definitely  defining 
his  rights  and  then  undertaking  to  avenge  his 
wrongs.  We  shall  never  have  a  common  peace 
in  Europe  till  we  have  a  common  principle  in 
luirope.  People  talk  of  "The  United  States  of 
Europe"  ;  but  they  forget  that  it  needed  the  very 
doctrinal  "  Declaration  of  Independence"  to  make 
the  United  States  of  America.  You  cannot  agree 
about  nothing  any  more  than  you  can  quarrel 
about  nothing. 


Wine  when  it  is  Red        ©        @        O 

T  SUPPOSE  that  there  will  be  some  wigs  on 
the  green  in  connection  with  the  recent 
manifesto  signed  by  a  string  of  very  eminent 
doctors  on  the  subject  of  what  is  called  '*  alcohol," 
"Alcohol"  is,  to  judge  by  the  sound  of  it,  an 
Arabic  word,  like  "algebra"  and  *'Alhambra," 
those  two  other  unpleasant  things.  The  Alhambra 
in  Spain  I  have  never  seen ;  I  am  told  that  it  is 
a  low  and  rambling  building ;  I  allude  to  the  far 
more  dignified  erection  in  Leicester  Square.  If 
it  is  true,  as  I  surmise,  that  "  alcohol "  is  a  word 
of  the  Arabs,  it  is  interesting  to  realise  that  our 
general  word  for  the  essence  of  wine  and  beer 
and  such  things  comes  from  a  people  which  has 
made  particular  war  upon  them.  I  suppose  that 
some  aged  Moslem  chieftain  sat  one  day  at  the 
opening  of  his  tent  and,  brooding  with  black 
brows  and  cursing  in  his  black  beard  over  wine 
as  the  symbol  of  Christianity,  racked  his  brains 
for  some  word  ugly  enough  to  express  his  racial 


All  Things  Considered 

and  religious  antipathy,  and  suddenly  spat  out  the 
horrible  word  "alcohol."  The  fact  that  the  doctors 
had  to  use  this  word  for  the  sake  of  scientific 
clearness  was  really  a  great  disadvantage  to  them 
in  fairly  discussing  the  matter.  For  the  word 
really  involves  one  of  those  beggings  of  the  ques- 
tion which  make  these  moral  matters  so  didicult. 
It  is  quite  a  mistake  to  suppose  that,  when  a  man 
desires  an  alcoholic  drii^.k,  he  necessarily  desires 
alcohol. 

Let  a  man  walk  ten  miles  steadily  on  a  hot 
summer's  day  along  a  dusty  English  road,  and 
he  will  soon  discover  why  beer  was  invented. 
The  fact  that  beer  has  a  very  slight  stimulating 
quality  will  be  quite  among  the  smallest  reasons 
that  induce  him  to  ask  for  it.  In  short,  he  will 
not  be  in  the  least  desiring  alcohol;  he  will  be 
desiring  beer.  But,  of  course,  the  question  can- 
not be  settled  in  such  a  simple  way.  The  real 
difliculiy  which  confronts  everybody,  and  which 
especially  confronts  doctors,  is  that  the  extra- 
ordinary position  of  man  in  the  physical  universe 
makes  it  practically  impossible  to  treat  him  in 
either  one  direction  or  the  other  in  a  purely 
physical  way.  Man  is  an  exception,  whatever 
else  he  is.  If  he  is  not  the  image  of  God,  then 
he  is  a  disease  of  the  dust.  If  it  is  not  true  that 
a  divine  being  fell,  then  we  can  only  say  that  one 


Wine  when   it   is   Red 

of  the  animals  went  entirely  off  its  head.  In 
neither  case  can  we  really  argue  very  much  from 
the  body  of  man  simply  considered  as  the  body 
of  an  innocent  and  healthy  animal.  His  body 
has  got  too  much  mixed  up  with  his  soul,  as  we 
see  in  the  supreme  instance  of  sex.  It  may  be 
worth  while  uttering  the  warning  to  wealthy  philan- 
tliropists  and  idealists  that  this  argument  from  the 
animal  should  not  be  thoughtlessly  used,  even 
against  the  atrocious  evils  of  excess ;  it  is  an 
argument  that  proves  too  little  or  too  much. 
Doubtless,  it  is  unnatural  to  be  drunk.  But  then 
in  a  real  sense  it  is  unnatural  to  be  human. 
Doubtless,  the  intemperate  workman  wastes  his 
tissues  in  drinking;  but  no  one  knows  how  much 
the  sober  workman  wastes  his  tissues  by  working. 
No  one  knows  how  much  the  wealthy  philan- 
thropist wastes  his  tissues  by  talking;  or,  in  much 
rarer  conditions,  by  thinking.  All  the  human 
things  are  more  dangerous  than  anything  that 
affects  the  beasts — sex,  poetry,  property,  religion. 
The  real  case  against  drunkenness  is  not  that  it 
calls  up  the  beast,  but  that  it  calls  up  the  Devil. 
It  does  not  call  up  the  beast,  and  if  it  did  it 
would  not  matter  much,  as  a  rule;  the  beast  is 
a  harmless  and  rather  amiable  creature,  as  any- 
body can  see  by  watching  cattle.  There  is  nothing 
bestial  about  intoxication ;  and  certainly  there  is 
233 


All  Things  Considered 

nothing  intoxicating  or  even  particularly  lively 
about  beasts.  Man  is  always  something  worse 
or  something  better  than  an  animal ;  and  a  mere 
argument  from  animal  perfection  never  touches 
him  at  all.  Thus,  in  sex  no  animal  is  either 
chivalrous  or  obscene.  And  thus  no  animal  ever 
invented  anything  so  bad  as  drunkenness — or  so 
good  as  drink. 

The  pronouncement  of  these  particular  doctors 
is  very  clear  and  uncompromising ;  in  the  modern 
atmosphere,  indeed,  it  even  deserves  some  credit 
for  moral  courage.  The  majority  of  modern 
people,  of  course,  will  probably  agree  with  it  in 
so  far  as  it  declares  that  alcoholic  drinks  are  often 
of  supreme  value  in  emergencies  of  illness ;  but 
many  people,  I  fear,  will  open  their  eyes  at  the 
emphatic  terms  in  which  they  describe  such  drink 
as  considered  as  a  beverage;  but  they  are  not 
content  with  declaring  that  the  drink  is  in  modera- 
tion harmless :  they  distinctly  declare  that  it  is 
in  moderation  beneficial.  But  I  fancy  that,  in 
saying  this,  the  doctors  had  in  mind  a  truth  that 
runs  somewhat  counter  to  the  common  opinion. 
I  fancy  that  it  is  the  experience  of  most  doctors 
that  giving  any  alcohol  for  illness  (though  often 
necessary)  is  about  the  most  morally  dangerous 
way  of  giving  it  Instead  of  giving  it  to  a  healthy 
person  who  has  many  other  forms  of  life,  you  are 
234 


Wine  when   it  is   Red 

giving  it  to  a  desperate  person,  to  whom  it  is 
the  only  form  of  life.  The  invalid  can  hardly 
be  blamed  if  by  some  accident  of  his  erratic  and 
overwrought  condition  he  comes  to  remember  the 
thing  as  the  very  water  of  vitality  and  to  use  it 
as  such.  For  in  so  far  as  drinking  is  really  a  sin 
it  is  not  because  drinking  is  wild,  but  because 
drinking  is  tame;  not  in  so  far  as  it  is  anarchy, 
but  in  so  far  as  it  is  slavery.  Probably  the  worst 
w^ay  to  drink  is  to  drink  medicinally.  Certainly 
the  safest  way  to  drink  is  to  drink  carelessly ; 
that  is,  without  caring  much  for  anything,  and 
especially  not  caring  for  the  drink. 

The  doctor,  of  course,  ought  to  be  able  to  do 
a  great  deal  in  the  way  of  restraining  those  indi- 
vidual cases  where  there  is  plainly  an  evil  thirst ; 
and  beyond  that  the  only  hope  would  seem  to  be 
in  some  increase,  or,  rather,  some  concentration 
of  ordinary  public  opinion  on  the  subject.  I  have 
always  held  consistently  my  own  modest  theory 
on  the  subject.  I  believe  that  if  by  some  method 
the  local  public-house  could  be  as  definite  and 
isolated  a  place  as  the  local  post-office  or  the  local 
railway  station,  if  all  types  of  people  passed  through 
it  for  all  types  of  refreshment,  you  would  have  the 
same  safeguard  against  a  man  behaving  in  a  disgust- 
ing way  in  a  tavern  that  you  have  at  present  against 
his  behaving  in  a  disgusting  way  in  a  post-office : 
235 


All  Things  Considered 

simply  the  presence  of  his  ordinary  sensible  neigh- 
bours. In  such  a  place  the  kind  of  lunatic  who 
wants  to  drink  an  unlimited  number  of  whiskies 
would  be  treated  with  the  same  severity  with 
which  the  post  office  authorities  would  treat  an 
amiable  lunatic  who  had  an  appetite  for  licking 
an  unlimited  number  of  stamps.  It  is  a  small 
matter  whether  in  either  case  a  technical  refusal 
would  be  officially  employed.  It  is  an  essential 
matter  that  in  both  cases  the  authorities  could 
rapidly  communicate  with  the  friends  and  family 
of  the  mentally  afflicted  person.  At  least,  the 
postmistress  would  not  dangle  a  strip  of  tempting 
sixpenny  stamps  before  the  enthusiast's  eyes  as  he 
was  being  dragged  away  with  his  tongue  out.  If 
we  made  drinking  open  and  official  we  might  be 
taking  one  step  towards  making  it  careless.  In 
such  things  to  be  careless  is  to  be  sane  :  for 
neither  drunkards  nor  Moslems  can  be  careless 
about  drink. 


236 


Demagogues  and  Mystagogues      ®        © 

T  ONCE  heard  a  man  call  this  age  the  age  of 
demagogues.  Of  this  I  can  only  say,  in  the 
admirably  sensible  words  of  the  angry  coachman 
in  "Pickwick,"  that  "that  remark  's  political,  or 
what  is  much  the  same,  it  ain't  true."  So  far  from 
being  the  age  of  demagogues,  this  is  really  and 
specially  the  age  of  mystagogues.  So  far  from 
this  being  a  time  in  which  things  are  praised 
because  they  are  popular,  the  truth  is  that  this  is 
the  first  time,  perhaps,  in  the  whole  history  of  the 
world  in  which  things  can  be  praised  because  they 
are  unpopular.  The  demagogue  succeeds  because 
he  makes  himself  understood,  even  if  he  is  not 
worth  understanding.  But  the  mystagogue  suc- 
ceeds because  he  gets  himself  misunderstood; 
although,  as  a  rule,  he  is  not  even  worth  mis- 
understanding. Gladstone  was  a  demagogue : 
Disraeli  a  mystagogue.  But  ours  is  specially 
the  time  when  a  man  can  advertise  his  wares 
not  as  a  universality,  but  as  what  the  tradesmen 
237 


All   Things  Considered 

call  "a  speciality."  ^Ve  all  know  this,  for  in- 
stance, about  modern  art.  Michelangelo  and 
Whistler  were  both  fine  artists ;  but  one  is 
obviously  public,  the  other  obviously  private,  or, 
rather,  not  obvious  at  all.  Michelangelo's  frescoes 
are  doubtless  finer  than  the  popular  judgment,  but 
they  are  plainly  meant  to  strike  the  popular  judg- 
ment. Whistler's  pictures  seem  often  meant  to 
escape  the  popular  judgment ;  they  even  seem 
meant  to  escape  the  popular  admiration.  They 
are  elusive,  fugitive;  they  fly  even  from  praise. 
Doubtless  many  artists  in  Michelangelo's  day 
declared  themselves  to  be  great  artists,  although 
they  were  unsuccessful.  But  they  did  not  declare 
themselves  great  artists  because  they  were  un- 
successful :  that  is  the  peculiarity  of  our  own  time, 
which  has  a  positive  bias  against  the  populace. 

Another  case  of  the  same  kind  of  thing  can  be 
found  in  the  latest  conceptions  of  humour.  By 
the  wholesome  tradition  of  mankind,  a  joke  was  a 
thing  meant  to  amuse  men ;  a  joke  which  did  not 
amuse  them  was  a  failure,  just  as  a  fire  which  did  not 
warm  them  was  a  failure.  But  we  have  seen  the 
process  of  secrecy  and  aristocracy  introduced  even 
into  jokes.  If  a  joke  falls  flat,  a  small  school  of 
aesthetes  only  ask  us  to  notice  the  wild  grace  of  its 
falling  and  its  perfect  flatness  after  its  fall.  The 
old  idea  that  the  joke  was  not  good  enough  for 
238 


Demagogues  and  Mystagogues 

llie  company  has  been  superseded  by  the  new 
aristocratic  idea  that  the  company  was  not  worthy 
of  the  joke.  They  have  introduced  an  ahnost 
insane  individualism  into  that  one  form  of  inter- 
course which  is  specially  and  uproariously  com- 
munal. They  have  made  even  levities  into  secrets. 
They  have  made  laughter  lonelier  than  tears. 

There  is  a  third  thing  to  which  the  mystagogues 
have  recently  been  applying  the  methods  of  a 
secret  society :  I  mean  manners.  Men  who 
sought  to  rebuke  rudeness  used  to  represent 
manners  as  reasonable  and  ordinary;  now  they 
seek  to  represent  them  as  private  and  peculiar. 
Instead  of  saying  to  a  man  who  blocks  up  a  street 
or  the  fireplace,  "You  ought  to  know  better  than 
that,"  the  moderns  say,  "  You,  of  course,  don't 
know  better  than  that," 

I  have  just  been  reading  an  amusing  book  by 
Lady  Grove  called  "The  Social  Fetich,"  which 
is  a  positive  riot  of  this  new  specialism  and 
mystification.  It  is  due  to  Lady  Grove  to  say 
that  she  has  some  of  the  freer  and  more  honour- 
able qualities  of  the  old  Whig  aristocracy,  as  well 
as  their  wonderful  worldliness  and  their  strange 
faith  in  the  passing  fashion  of  our  politics.  For 
instance^  she  speaks  of  Jingo  Imperialism  with  a 
healthy  English  contempt ;  and  she  perceives  stray 
and  striking  truths,  and  records  them  justly — as, 
239 


All  Things  Considered 

for  instance,  the  greater  democracy  of  the  Southern 
and  Catholic  countries  of  Europe.  But  in  her 
dealings  with  social  formulae  here  in  England 
she  is,  it  must  frankly  be  said,  a  common  mysta- 
gogue.  She  does  not,  like  a  decent  demagogue, 
wish  to  make  people  understand;  she  wishes  to 
make  them  painfully  conscious  of  not  under- 
standing. Her  favourite  method  is  to  terrify 
people  from  doing  things  that  are  quite  harmless 
by  telling  them  that  if  they  do  they  are  the  kind 
of  people  who  would  do  other  things,  equally 
harmless.  If  you  ask  after  somebody's  mother 
(or  whatever  it  is),  you  are  the  kind  of  person 
who  would  have  a  pillow-case,  or  would  not  have 
a  pillow-case.  1  forget  which  it  is;  and  so,  I 
dare  say,  does  she.  If  you  assume  the  ordinary 
dignity  of  a  decent  citizen  and  say  that  you  don't 
see  the  harm  of  having  a  mother  or  a  pillow-case, 
she  would  say  that  of  course  you  wouldn't.  This 
is  what  I  call  being  a  mystagoguc.  It  is  more 
vulgar  than  being  a  demagogue;  because  it  is 
much  easier. 

The  primary  point  I  meant  to  emphasise  is  thst 
this  sort  of  aristocracy  is  essentially  a  new  sort. 
All  the  old  despots  were  demagogues ;  at  least, 
they  were  demagogues  whenever  they  were  really 
trying  to  please  or  impress  the  demos.  If  they 
poured  out  beer  for  their  vassals  it  was  because 
340 


Demagogues  and  Mystagogues 

both  they  and  their  vassals  had  a  taste  for  beer. 
If  (in  some  slightly  different  mood)  they  poured 
melted  lead  on  their  vassals,  it  was  because  both 
they  and  their  vassals  had  a  strong  distaste  for 
melted  lead.  But  they  did  not  make  any  mystery 
about  either  of  the  two  substances.  They  did  not 
say,  "  You  don't  like  melted  lead  ?  .  .  .  Ah  !  no, 
of  course,  you  wouldn't ;  you  are  probably  the  kind 
of  person  who  would  prefer  beer,  ...  It  is  no 
good  asking  you  even  to  imagine  the  curious 
undercurrent  of  psychological  pleasure  felt  by  a 
refined  person  under  the  seeming  shock  of  melted 
lead."  Even  tyrants  when  they  tried  to  be  popu- 
lar, tried  to  give  the  people  pleasure;  they  did 
not  try  to  overawe  the  people  by  giving  them 
something  which  they  ought  to  regard  as  pleasure. 
It  was  the  same  with  the  popular  presentment  of 
aristocracy.  Aristocrats  tried  to  impress  humanity 
by  the  exhibition  of  qualities  which  humanity 
admires,  such  as  courage,  gaiety,  or  even  mere 
splendour.  The  aristocracy  might  have  more 
possession  in  these  things,  but  the  democracy 
had  quite  equal  delight  in  them.  It  was  much 
more  sensible  to  offer  yourself  for  admiration 
because  you  had  drunk  three  bottles  of  port  at 
a  sitting,  than  to  offer  yourself  for  admiration 
(as  Lady  Grove  does)  because  you  think  it  right 
to  say  "  port  wine "  while  other  people  think  it 

R  241 


All  Things  Considered 

right  to  say  "  port."  Whether  Lady  Grove's  pre- 
ference for  port  wine  (I  mean  for  the  phrase  port 
wine)  is  a  piece  of  mere  nonsense  I  do  not  know; 
but  at  least  it  is  a  very  good  example  of  the  futility 
of  such  tests  in  the  matter  even  of  mere  breeding. 
•*  Port  wine"  may  happen  to  be  the  phrase  used 
in  certain  good  families;  but  numberless  aristo- 
crats say  "  port,"  and  all  barmaids  say  "  port 
wine."  The  whole  thing  is  rather  more  trivial 
than  collecting  tram-tickets;  and  I  will  not  pursue 
Lady  Grove's  further  distinctions.  I  pass  over 
the  interesting  theory  that  I  ought  to  say  to  Jones 
(even  apparently  if  he  is  my  dearest  friend),  "  How 
is  Mrs.  Jones?"  instead  of  "How  is  your  wife?"; 
and  I  pass  over  an  impassioned  declamation  about 
bedspreads  (I  think)  which  has  failed  to  fire  my 
blood. 

The  truth  of  the  matter  is  really  quite  simple. 
An  aristocracy  is  a  secret  society ;  and  this  is 
especially  so  when,  as  in  the  modern  world,  it  is 
practically  a  plutocracy.  The  one  idea  of  a  secret 
society  is  to  change  the  password.  Lady  Grove 
falls  naturally  into  a  pure  perversity  because  she 
feels  subconsciously  that  the  people  of  England 
can  be  more  elTectively  kept  at  a  distance  by  a 
perpetual  torrent  of  new  tests  than  by  the  per- 
sistence of  a  few  old  ones.  She  knows  that  in  the 
educated  "  middle  class  "  there  is  an  idea  that  it  is 
242 


Demagogues  and  Mystagogues 

vulgar  to  say  port  wine;  therefore  she  reverses 
the  idea — she  says  that  the  man  who  would  say 
"port"  is  a  man  who  would  say,  "How  is  your 
wife  ?  "  She  says  it  because  she  knows  both  these 
remarks  to  be  quite  obvious  and  reasonable. 

The  only  thing  to  be  done  or  said  in  reply,  I 
suppose,  would  be  to  apply  the  same  principle  of 
bold  mystification  on  our  own  part.  I  do  not  see 
why  I  should  not  write  a  book  called  "  Etiquette 
in  Fleet  Street,"  and  terrify  every  one  else  out  of 
that  thoroughfare  by  mysterious  allusions  to  the 
mistakes  that  they  generally  make.  I  might  say  : 
"  This  is  the  kind  of  man  who  would  wear  a  green 
tie  when  he  went  into  a  tobacconist's,"  or  "You 
don't  see  anything  wrong  in  drinking  a  Benedictine 
on  Thursday?  .  .  .  No,  of  course  you  wouldn't." 
I  might  asseverate  with  passionate  disgust  and 
disdain :  "  The  man  who  is  capable  of  writing 
sonnets  as  well  as  triolets  is  capable  of  climbing 
an  omnibus  while  holding  an  umbrella."  It  seems 
a  simple  method ;  if  ever  I  should  master  it 
perhaps  I  may  govern  England. 


243 


The  "Eatanswill  Gazette."         ©        O 

'T'HE  other  day  some  one  presented  me  wiih  a 
paper  called  the  Eatanstmll  Gazette.  I  need 
hardly  say  that  I  could  not  have  been  more 
startled  if  I  had  seen  a  coach  coming  down  the 
road  with  old  Mr.  Tony  Weller  on  the  box.  But, 
indeed,  the  case  is  much  more  extraordinary  than 
that  would  be.  Old  Mr.  Weller  was  a  good  man, 
a  specially  and  seriously  good  man,  a  proud  father, 
a  very  patient  husband,  a  sane  moralist,  and  a 
re'iable  ally.  One  could  not  be  so  very  much 
surprised  if  somebody  pretended  to  be  Tony 
Weller.  But  the  Eatanswill  Gazette  is  definitely 
depicted  in  "Pickwick"  as  a  dirty  and  unscru- 
pulous rag,  soaked  with  slander  and  nonsense. 
It  was  really  interesting  to  find  a  modern  paper 
proud  to  take  its  name.  The  case  cannot  be 
compared  to  anything  so  simple  as  a  resurrection 
of  one  of  the  "  Pickwick  "  characters  ;  yet  a  very 
good  parallel  could  easily  be  found.  It  is  almost 
exactly  as  if  a  firm  of  solicitors  were  to  open  their 

245 


All  Things  Considered 

offices  to-morrow  under  the  name  of  Dodson  and 
Fogg. 

It  was  at  once  apparent,  of  course,  that  the 
thing  was  a  joke.  But  what  was  not  ajjparent, 
what  only  grew  upon  the  mind  with  gradual 
wonder  and  terror,  was  the  fact  that  it  had  its 
serious  side.  The  paper  is  publislicd  in  the 
well-known  town  of  Sudbury,  in  Suffolk.  And 
it  seems  that  there  is  a  standing  quarrel  between 
Sudbury  and  the  county  town  of  Ipswich  as  to 
which  was  the  town  described  by  Dickens  in  his 
celebrated  sketch  of  an  election.  Each  town 
proclaims  with  passion  that  it  was  Eatanswill.  If 
each  town  proclaimed  with  passion  that  it  was  not 
Eatanswill,  I  might  be  able  to  understand  it. 
Eatanswill,  according  to  Dickens,  was  a  town 
alive  with  loathsome  corruption,  hypocritical  in 
all  its  public  utterances,  and  venal  in  all  its 
votes.  Yet,  two  highly  respectable  towns  com- 
pete for  the  honour  of  having  been  this  particular 
cesspool,  just  as  ten  cities  fought  to  be  the  birth- 
place of  Homer,  They  claim  to  be  its  original 
as  keenly  as  if  they  were  claiming  to  be  the 
original  of  More's  **  Utopia  "  or  Morris's  "  Earthly 
Paradise."  They  grow  seriously  heated  over  the 
matter.  The  men  of  Ipswich  say  warmly,  "It 
must  have  been  our  town  ;  for  Dickens  says  it 
was  corrupt,  and  a  more  corrupt  town  than  our 
246 


The  "  Eatanswill  Gazette  " 

town  you  couldn't  have  met  in  a  month."  The 
men  of  Sudbury  reply  with  rising  passion,  "  Permit 
us  to  tell  you,  gentlemen,  that  our  town  was  quite 
as  corrupt  as  your  town  any  day  of  the  week. 
Our  town  was  a  common  nuisance  ;  and  we  defy 
our  enemies  to  question  it."  "Perhaps  you  will 
tell  us,"  sneer  the  citizens  of  Ipswich,  "  that  your 

politics   were   ever   as   thoroughly  filthy  as " 

"As  filthy  as  anything,"  answer  the  Sudbury  men, 
undauntedly.  "  Nothing  in  politics  could  be 
filthier.  Dickens  must  have  noticed  how  dis- 
gusting we  were."  "And  could  he  have  failed 
to  notice,"  the  others  reason  indignantly,  "  how 
disgusting  we  were?  You  could  smell  us  a  mile 
off.  You  Sudbury  fellows  may  think  yourselves 
very  fine,  but  let  me  tell  you  that,  compared  to 
our  city,  Sudbury  was  an  honest  place."  And  so 
the  controversy  goes  on.  It  seems  to  me  to  be 
a  new  and  odd  kind  of  controversy. 

Naturally,  an  outsider  feels  inclined  to  ask  why 
Eatanswill  should  be  either  one  or  the  other. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  fear  Eatanswill  was  every 
town  in  the  country.  It  is  surely  clear  that  when 
Dickens  described  the  Eatanswill  election  he  did 
not  mean  it  as  a  satire  on  Sudbury  or  a  satire 
on  Ipswich ;  he  meant  it  as  a  satire  on  England. 
The  Eatanswill  election  is  not  a  joke  against 
Eatanswill ;  it  is  a  joke  against  elections.  If 
247 


All  Thiiifrs  Considered 

the  satire  is  merely  local,  it  practically  loses  its 
point ;  just  as  the  "  Circumlocution  Office  "  would 
lose  its  point  if  it  were  not  supposed  to  be  a  true 
sketch  of  all  Government  offices  ;  just  as  the  Lord 
Chancellor  in  "  Bleak  House "  would  lose  his 
point  if  he  were  not  supposed  to  be  symbolic 
and  representative  of  all  Lord  Chancellors.  The 
whole  moral  meaning  would  vanish  if  we  supposed 
that  Oliver  Twist  had  got  by  accident  into  an 
exceptionally  bad  workhouse,  or  that  Mr.  Dorrit 
was  in  the  only  debtors'  prison  that  was  not  well 
managed.  Dickens  was  making  game,  not  of 
jilaces,  but  of  methods.  He  poured  all  his  power- 
ful genius  into  trying  to  make  the  people  ashamed 
of  the  methods.  But  he  seems  only  to  have  suc- 
ceeded in  making  people  proud  of  the  places.  In 
any  case,  the  controversy  is  conducted  in  a  truly 
extraordinary  way.  No  one  seems  to  allow  for  the 
fact  that,  after  all,  Dickens  was  writing  a  novel, 
and  a  highly  fantastic  novel  at  that.  Facts  in 
support  of  Sudbury  or  Ipswich  are  quoted  not 
only  from  the  story  itself,  which  is  wild  and  wan- 
dering enough,  but  even  from  the  yet  wilder 
narratives  which  incidentally  occur  in  the  story, 
such  as  Sam  Weller's  description  of  how  his  father, 
on  the  way  to  Eatanswill,  tipped  all  the  voters  into 
the  canal.  This  may  quite  easily  be  (to  begin 
with)  an  entertaining  tnrradiddle  of  Sam's  own 
248 


The  "  Eatanswill   Gazette" 

invention,  told,  like  many  other  even  more  im- 
probable stories,  solely  to  amuse  Mr.  Pickwick. 
Yet  the  champions  of  these  two  towns  positively 
ask  each  other  to  produce  a  canal,  or  to  fail  for 
ever  in  their  attempt  to  prove  themselves  the  most 
corrupt  town  in  England.  As  far  as  I  remember, 
Sam's  story  of  the  canal  ends  with  Mr.  Pickwick 
eagerly  asking  whether  everybody  was  rescued, 
and  Sam  solemnly  replying  that  one  old  gentle- 
man's hat  was  found,  but  that  he  was  not  sure 
whether  his  head  was  in  it.  If  the  canal  is  to 
be  taken  as  realistic,  why  not  the  hat  and  the 
head?  If  these  critics  ever  find  the  canal  I 
recommend  them  to  drag  it  for  the  body  of  the 
old  gentleman. 

Both  sides  refuse  to  allow  for  the  fact  that  tlie 
characters  in  the  story  are  comic  characters.  For 
instance,  Mr.  Percy  Fitzgerald,  the  eminent  student 
of  Dickens,  writes  to  the  Eatanswill  Gazette  to  say 
that  Sudbury,  a  small  town,  could  not  have  been 
Eatanswill,  because  one  of  the  candidates  speaks 
of  its  great  manufactures.  But  obviously  one  of 
the  candidates  would  have  spoken  of  its  great 
manufactures  if  it  had  had  nothing  but  a  row  of 
apple-stalls.  One  of  the  candidates  might  have 
said  that  the  commerce  of  Eatanswill  eclipsed 
Carthage,  and  covered  every  sea;  it  would  have 
been  quite  in  the  style  of  Dickens.  But  when  the 
249 


All  Things   Considered 

champion  of  Sudbury  answers  him,  he  does  not 
point  out  this  plain  mistake.  He  answers  by 
making  another  mistake  exactly  of  the  same  kind. 
He  says  that  Eatanswill  was  not  a  busy,  important 
place.  And  his  odd  reason  is  that  Mrs.  Pott  said 
she  was  dull  there.  But  obviously  Mrs.  Pott  would 
have  said  she  was  dull  anywhere.  She  was  setting 
her  cap  at  Mr.  Winkle.  Moreover,  it  was  the 
whole  point  of  her  character  in  any  case.  Mrs. 
Pott  was  that  kind  of  woman.  If  she  had  been 
in  Ipswich  she  would  have  said  that  she  ou^ht  to 
be  in  London.  If  she  was  in  London  she  would 
have  said  that  she  ought  to  be  in  Paris.  The 
first  disputant  proves  Eatanswill  grand  because 
a  servile  candidate  calls  it  grand.  The  second 
proves  it  dull  because  a  discontented  woman  calls 
it  dull. 

The  great  part  of  the  controversy  seems  to  be 
conducted  in  the  spirit  of  highly  irrelevant  realism. 
Sudbury  cannot  be  Eatanswill,  because  there  was  a 
fancy-dress  shop  at  Eatanswill,  and  there  is  no 
record  of  a  fancy-dress  shop  at  Sudbury.  Sudbury 
must  be  Eatanswill  because  there  were  heavy  roads 
outside  Eatanswill,  and  there  are  heavy  roads 
outside  Sudbury.  Ipswich  cannot  be  Eatanswill, 
because  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter's  country  seat  would 
not  be  near  a  big  town.  Ipswich  must  be  Eatans- 
will because  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter's  country  scat  would 
250 


The  "  Eatanswill  Gazette  " 

be  near  a  large  town.  Really,  Dickens  might 
have  been  allowed  to  take  liberties  with  such 
things  as  these,  even  if  he  had  been  mentioning 
the  place  by  name.  If  I  were  writing  a  story 
about  the  town  of  Limerick,  I  should  take  the 
liberty  of  introducing  a  bun-shop  without  taking 
a  journey  to  Limerick  to  see  whether  there  was 
a  bun-shop  there.  If  I  wrote  a  romance  about 
Torquay,  I  should  hold  myself  free  to  introduce 
a  house  with  a  green  door  without  having  studied 
a  list  of  all  the  coloured  doors  in  the  town.  But 
if,  in  order  to  make  it  particularly  obvious  that 
I  had  not  meant  the  town  for  a  photograph  either 
of  Torquay  or  Limerick,  I  had  gone  out  of  my 
way  to  give  the  place  a  wild,  fictitious  name  of 
my  own,  I  think  that  in  that  case  I  should  be 
justified  in  tearing  my  hair  with  rage  if  the  people 
of  Limerick  or  Torquay  began  to  argue  about 
bun-shops  and  green  doors.  No  reasonable  man 
would  expect  Dickens  to  be  so  literal  as  all  that 
even  about  Bath  or  Bury  St.  Edmunds,  which 
do  exist;  far  less  need  he  be  literal  about  Eatans- 
will, which  didn't  exist. 

I  must  confess,  however,  that  I  incline  to  the 
Sudbury  side  of  the  argument.  This  does  not 
only  arise  from  the  sympathy  which  all  healthy 
people  have  for  small  places  as  against  big  ones ; 
it  arises  from  some  really  good  qualities  in  this 
251 


All  Things  Considered 

particular  Sudbury  publication.  First  of  all,  the 
champions  of  Sudbury  seem  to  be  more  open  to 
the  sensible  and  humorous  view  of  the  book 
than  the  champions  of  Ipswich — at  least,  those 
that  appear  in  this  discussion.  Even  the  Sudbury 
champion,  bent  on  finding  realistic  clothes,  rebels 
(to  his  eternal  honour)  when  Mr.  Percy  Fitzgerald 
tries  to  show  that  Bob  Sawyer's  famous  statement 
that  he  was  neither  Buff  nor  Blue,  "  but  a  sort 
of  plaid,"  must  have  been  copied  from  some  silly 
man  at  Ipswich  who  said  that  his  politics  were 
"  half  and  half."  Anybody  might  have  made 
either  of  the  two  jokes.  But  it  was  the  whole 
glory  and  meaning  of  Dickens  that  he  confined 
himself  to  making  jokes  that  anybody  might  have 
made  a  liltle  better  than  anybody  woulil  have 
made  them. 


252 


Fairy  Tales       (5        ©         ©        ©        ® 

O  OME  solemn  and  superficial  people  (for  nearly 
all  very  superficial  people  are  solemn)  have 
declared  that  the  fairy-tales  are  immoral ;  they 
base  this  upon  some  accidental  circumstances  or 
regrettable  incidents  in  the  war  between  giants 
and  boys,  some  cases  in  which  the  latter  indulged 
in  unsympathetic  deceptions  or  even  in  practical 
jokes.  The  objection,  however,  is  not  only  false, 
but  very  much  the  reverse  of  the  facts.  The 
fairy-tales  are  at  root  not  only  moral  in  the  sense 
of  being  innocent,  but  moral  in  the  sense  of  being 
didactic,  moral  in  the  sense  of  being  moraUsing. 
It  is  all  very  well  to  talk  of  the  freedom  of  fairy- 
land, but  there  was  precious  little  freedom  in 
fairyland  by  the  best  official  accounts.  Mr.  W. 
B.  Yeats  and  other  sensitive  modern  souls,  feeling 
that  modern  life  is  about  as  black  a  slavery  as 
ever  oppressed  mankind  (they  are  right  enough 
there),  have  specially  described  elfland  as  a  place 
of  utter  ease  and  abandonment — a  place  where  the 
253 


All  Things   Considered 

soal  can  turn  every  way  at  will  like  the  wind. 
Science  denounces  the  idea  of  a  capricious  God; 
but  Mr.  Yeats's  scliool  suggests  that  in  that  world 
every  one  is  a  capricious  god.  Mr.  Yeats  himself 
has  said  a  hundred  times  in  that  sad  and  splendid 
literary  style  which  makes  him  the  first  of  all 
poets  now  writing  in  English  (I  will  not  say  of 
all  English  poets,  for  Irishmen  are  familiar  with 
the  practice  of  physical  assault),  he  has,  I  say, 
called  up  a  hundred  times  the  picture  of  the 
terrible  freedom  of  the  fairies,  who  typify  the 
ultimate  anarchy  of  art — 

"  Where  nobody  grows  old  or  weary  or  wise, 
Where  nobody  grows  old  or  godly  or  grave." 

But,  after  all  (it  is  a  shocking  thing  to  say), 
I  doubt  whether  Mr.  Yeats  really  knows  the  real 
philosophy  of  the  fairies.  He  is  not  simple  enough ; 
he  is  not  stupid  enough.  Though  I  say  it  who 
should  not,  in  good  sound  human  stupidity  I 
would  knock  Mr.  Yeats  out  any  day.  The  fairies 
like  me  better  than  Mr.  Yeats;  they  can  take 
me  in  more.  And  I  have  my  doubts  whether 
this  feeling  of  the  free,  wild  spirits  on  the  crest 
of  hill  or  wave  is  really  the  central  and  simple 
spirit  of  folk-lore,  I  think  the  poets  have  made 
a  mistake  :  because  the  world  of  the  fairy-tales 
is  a  brighter  and  more  varied  world  than  ours, 
234 


Fairy  Tales 

they  have  fancied  it  less  mora] ;  really  it  is 
brighter  and  more  varied  because  it  is  mo!e 
moral.  Suppose  a  man  could  be  born  in  a 
modern  prison.  It  is  impossible,  of  course,  be- 
cause nothing  human  can  happen  in  a  modern 
prison,  though  it  could  sometimes  in  an  ancient 
dungeon.  A  modern  prison  is  always  inhuman, 
even  when  it  is  not  inhumane.  But  suppose  a 
man  were  born  in  a  modern  prison,  and  grew 
accustomed  to  the  deadly  silence  and  the  dis- 
gusting indifference ;  and  suppose  he  were  then 
suddenly  turned  loose  upon  the  life  and  laughter 
of  Fleet  Street.  He  would,  of  course,  think  that 
the  literary  men  in  Fleet  Street  were  a  free  and 
happy  race ;  yet  how  sadly,  how  ironically,  is 
this  the  reverse  of  the  case  !  And  so  again  these 
toiling  serfs  in  Fleet  Street,  when  they  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  fairies,  think  the  fairies  are  utterly 
free.  But  fairies  are  like  journalists  in  this  and 
many  other  respects.  Fairies  and  journalists  have 
an  apparent  gaiety  and  a  delusive  beauty.  Fairies 
and  journalists  seem  to  be  lovely  and  lawless; 
they  seem  to  be  both  of  them  too  exquisite  to 
descend  to  the  ugliness  of  everyday  duty.  But 
it  is  an  illusion  created  by  the  sudden  sweetness 
of  their  presence.  Journalists  live  under  law  ;  and 
so  in  fact  does  fairyland. 

If    you    really   read    the    fairy-tales,    you    will 
255 


All   Thiims  Considered 

CD 

observe  that  one  idea  runs  from  one  end  of 
them  to  the  other — the  idea  that  peace  and 
happiness  can  only  exist  on  some  condition. 
This  idea,  which  is  the  core  of  ethics,  is  tlie 
core  of  tlie  nursery-tales.  The  whole  happiness 
of  fairyland  hangs  upon  a  thread,  upon  one 
thread.  Cinderella  may  have  a  dress  woven  on 
supernatural  looms  and  blazing  with  unearthly 
brilliance  ;  but  she  must  be  back  when  the  clock 
strikes  twelve.  The  king  may  invite  fairies  to 
the  christening,  but  he  must  invite  all  the  fairies 
or  frightful  results  will  follow.  Bluebeard's  wife 
may  open  all  doors  but  one.  A  promise  is  broken 
to  a  cat,  and  the  whole  world  goes  wrong.  A 
promise  is  broken  to  a  yellow  dwarf,  and  the 
whole  world  goes  wrong.  A  girl  may  be  the 
bride  of  the  God  of  Love  himself  if  she  never 
tries  to  see  him ;  she  sees  him,  and  he  vanishes 
away.  A  girl  is  given  a  box  on  condition  she 
does  not  open  it ;  she  opens  it,  and  all  the  evils 
of  this  world  rush  out  at  her.  A  man  and  woman 
are  put  in  a  garden  on  condition  that  they  do 
not  eat  one  fruit :  they  eat  it,  and  lose  their  joy 
in  all  the  fruits  of  the  earth. 

This  great  idea,   then,  is   the  backbone  of  all 

folk-lore — the    idea   that  all   happiness  hangs  on 

one    thin  veto  ;   all  positive  joy  depends  on  one 

negative.      Is'ow,    it    is    obvious    that    there    are 

256 


Fairy  Tales 

many  philosophical  and  rehgious  ideas  akin  to 
or  symbolised  by  this ;  but  it  is  not  with  them 
I  wish  to  deal  here.  It  is  surely  obvious  that 
all  ethics  ought  to  be  taught  to  this  fairy-tale 
tune  ;  that,  if  one  does  the  thing  forbidden,  one 
imperils  all  the  things  provided.  A  man  who 
breaks  his  promise  to  his  wife  ought  to  be  reminded 
that,  even  if  she  is  a  cat,  the  case  of  the  fairy- 
cat  shows  that  such  conduct  may  be  incautious. 
A  burglar  just  about  to  open  some  one  else's 
safe  should  be  playfully  reminded  that  he  is  in 
the  perilous  posture  of  the  beautiful  Pandora :  he 
is  about  to  lift  the  forbidden  lid  and  loosen  evils 
unknown.  The  boy  eating  some  one's  apples  in 
some  one's  apple  tree  should  be  a  reminder  that 
he  has  come  to  a  mystical  moment  of  his  life, 
when  one  apple  may  rob  him  of  all  others.  This 
is  the  profound  morality  of  fairy-tales;  which  so 
far  from  being  lawless,  go  to  the  root  of  all  law. 
Instead  of  finding  (like  common  books  of  ethics) 
a  rationalistic  basis  for  each  Commandment,  they 
find  the  great  mystical  basis  for  all  Commandments. 
We  are  in  this  fairyland  on  sufferance  ;  it  is  not 
for  us  to  quarrel  with  the  conditions  under  which 
we  enjoy  this  wild  vision  of  the  world.  The 
vetoes  are  indeed  extraordinary,  but  then  so  are 
the  concessions.  The  idea  of  property,  the  idea 
of  some  one  else's  apples,  is  a  rum  idea ;  but  then 
s  257 


All    Things   Considered 

the  idea  of  there  being  any  apples  is  a  rum  idea. 
It  is  strange  and  weird  that  I  cannot  with  safety 
drink  ten  bottles  of  champagne ;  but  then  the 
champagne  itself  is  strange  and  weird,  if  you 
come  to  that.  If  I  have  drunk  of  the  fairies' 
drink  it  is  but  just  I  should  drink  by  the  fairies' 
rules.  We  may  not  see  the  direct  logical  con- 
nection between  three  beautiful  silver  spoons 
and  a  large  ugly  policeman  ;  but  then  who  in  fairy- 
tales ever  could  see  the  direct  logical  connection 
between  three  bears  and  a  giant,  or  between  a 
rose  and  a  roaring  beast  ?  Not  only  can  these 
fairy-tales  be  enjoyed  because  they  are  moral,  but 
morality  can  be  enjoyed  because  it  puts  us  in 
fairyland,  in  a  world  at  once  of  wonder  and  of  war. 


258 


Tom  Jones  and  Morality        Q        © 

'T^HE  two  hundredth  anniversary  of  ficnry 
Fielding  is  very  justly  celebrated,  even  if, 
as  far  as  can  be  discovered,  it  is  only  celebrated 
by  the  newspapers.  It  would  be  too  much  to 
expect  that  any  such  merely  chronological  inci- 
dent should  induce  the  people  who  write  about 
Fielding  to  read  him ;  this  kind  of  neglect  is  only 
another  name  for  glory.  A  great  classic  means 
a  man  whom  one  can  praise  without  having  read. 
This  is  not  in  itself  wholly  unjust;  it  merely 
implies  a  certain  respect  for  the  realisation  and 
fixed  conclusions  of  the  mass  of  mankind.  I 
have  never  read  Pindar  (I  mean  1  have  never 
read  the  Greek  Pindar;  Peter  Pindar  I  have  read 
all  right),  but  the  mere  fact  that  I  have  not  read 
Pindar,  I  think,  ouglit  not  to  prevent  me  and 
certainly  would  not  prevent  me  from  talking  of 
"the  masterpieces  of  Pindar,"  or  of  "great  poets 
like  Pindar  or  ^schylus."  The  very  learned  men 
are  singularly  unenlightened  on  this  as  on  many 
259 


All  Things   Considered 

other  subjects ;  and  the  position  they  take  up 
is  really  quite  unreasonable.  If  any  ordinary 
journalist  or  man  of  general  reading  alludes  to 
Villon  or  to  Homer,  they  consider  it  a  quite 
triumpliant  sneer  to  say  to  the  man,  "You  cannot 
read  mediaeval  French,"  or,  "You  cannot  read 
Homeric  Greek."  But  it  is  not  a  triumphant 
sneer — or,  indeed,  a  sneer  at  all.  A  man  has 
got  as  much  right  to  employ  in  his  speech  the 
established  and  traditional  facts  of  human  histoiy 
as  he  has  to  employ  any  other  piece  of  common 
human  information.  And  it  is  as  reasonable  for 
a  man  who  knows  no  French  to  assume  that 
Villon  was  a  good  poet  as  it  would  be  for  a  man 
who  has  no  ear  for  music  to  assume  that  Beethoven 
was  a  good  musician.  Because  he  himself  has  no 
ear  for  music,  that  is  no  reason  why  he  should 
assume  that  the  human  race  has  no  ear  for  music. 
Because  I  am  ignorant  (as  I  am),  it  does  not 
follow  that  I  ought  to  assume  that  I  am  deceived. 
The  man  who  would  not  praise  Pindar  unless  he 
had  read  him  would  be  a  low,  distrustful  fellow, 
the  worst  kind  of  sceptic,  who  doubts  not  only 
God,  but  man.  He  would  be  like  a  man  who 
could  not  call  Mount  Everest  high  unless  he  had 
climbed  it.  He  would  be  like  a  man  who  would 
not  admit  that  the  North  Pole  was  cold  until  he 
had  been  there. 

360 


Tom  Jones  and   Morality 

But  I  think  there  is  a  limit,  and  a  highly 
legitimate  limit,  to  this  process.  I  think  a  man 
may  praise  Pindar  without  knowing  the  top  of  a 
Greek  letter  from  the  bottom.  But  I  think  that 
if  a  man  is  going  to  abuse  Pindar,  if  he  is  going 
to  denounce,  refute,  and  utterly  expose  Pindar, 
if  he  is  going  to  show  Pindar  up  as  the  utter 
ignoramus  and  outrageous  impostor  that  he  is, 
then  I  think  it  will  be  just  as  well  perhaps — 1 
think,  at  any  rate,  it  would  do  no  harm — if  he 
did  know  a  little  Greek,  and  even  had  read  a 
little  Pindar.  And  I  think  the  same  situation 
would  be  involved  if  the  critic  were  concerned  to 
point  out  that  Pindar  was  scandalously  immoral, 
pestilently  cynical,  or  low  and  beastly  in  his  views 
of  life.  When  people  brought  such  attacks  against 
the  morality  of  Pindar,  I  should  regret  that  they 
could  not  read  Greek ;  and  when  they  bring  such 
attacks  against  the  morality  of  Fielding,  I  regret 
very  much  that  they  cannot  read  English. 

There  seems  to  be  an  extraordinary  idea  abroad 
that  Fielding  was  in  some  way  an  immoral  or 
offensive  writer.  I  have  been  astounded  by  the 
number  of  the  leading  articles,  literary  articles, 
and  other  articles  written  about  him  just  now  in 
which  there  is  a  curious  tone  of  apologising  for 
the  man.  One  critic  says  that  after  all  he  couldn't 
help  it,  because  he  lived  in  the  eighteenth  century; 
261 


All   Things   Considered 

another  says  that  we  must  allow  for  the  change  of 
manners  and  ideas ;  another  says  that  he  was  not 
altogether  without  generous  and  humane  feelings; 
another  suggests  that  he  clung  feebly,  after  all,  to 
a  few  of  the  less  important  virtues.  What  on 
earth  docs  all  this  mean  ?  Fielding  described 
Tom  Jones  as  going  on  in  a  certain  way,  in  which, 
most  unfortunately,  a  very  large  number  of  young 
men  do  go  on.  It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that 
Henry  Fielding  knew  that  it  was  an  unfortunate 
way  of  going  on.  Even  Tom  Jones  knew  that. 
He  said  in  so  many  words  that  it  was  a  very 
unfortunate  way  of  going  on ;  he  said,  one  may 
almost  say,  that  it  had  ruined  his  life;  the  passage 
is  there  for  the  benefit  of  any  one  who  may  take 
the  trouble  to  read  the  book.  There  is  ample 
evidence  (though  even  this  is  of  a  mystical  and 
indirect  kind),  there  is  ample  evidence  that 
Fielding  probably  ihouj^ht  that  it  was  better  to 
be  Tom  Jones  than  to  be  an  utter  coward  and 
sneak.  There  is  simply  not  one  rag  or  thread  or 
speck  of  evidence  to  show  that  Fielding  thought 
that  it  was  better  to  be  Tom  Jones  than  to  be  a 
good  man.  All  that  he  is  concerned  with  is  the 
description  of  a  definite  and  very  real  type  of 
young  man ;  the  young  man  whose  passions  and 
whose  selfish  r.ecessities  sometimes  seemed  to  be 
stronger  than  anything  else  in  him. 
262 


Tom  Jones  and    Morality 

The  practical  morality  of  Tom  Jones  is  bad, 
though  not  so  bad,  spiritually  speaking,  as  the 
practical  morality  of  Arthur  Pendennis  or  the 
practical  morality  of  Pip,  and  certainly  nothing 
like  so  bad  as  the  profound  practical  immorality 
of  Daniel  Deronda.  The  practical  morality  of 
Tom  Jones  is  bad;  but  I  cannot  see  any  proof 
that  his  theoretical  morality  was  particularly  bad. 
There  is  no  need  to  tell  the  majority  of  modern 
young  men  even  to  live  up  to  the  theoretical 
ethics  of  Henry  Fielding.  They  would  suddenly 
spring  into  the  stature  of  archangels  if  they  lived 
up  to  the  theoretic  ethics  of  poor  Tom  Jones. 
Tom  Jones  is  still  alive,  with  all  his  good  and  all 
his  evil ;  he  is  walking  about  the  streets ;  we  meet 
him  every  day.  We  meet  with  him,  we  drink  with 
him,  we  smoke  with  him,  we  talk  with  him,  we 
talk  about  him.  The  only  difference  is  that  we 
have  no  longer  the  intellectual  courage  to  write 
about  him.  We  split  up  the  supreme  and  central 
human  being,  Tom  Jones,  into  a  number  of 
separate  aspects.  We  let  Mr.  J.  M.  Barrie  write 
about  him  in  his  good  moments,  and  make  him 
out  better  than  he  is.  We  let  Zola  write  about 
him  in  his  bad  moments,  and  make  him  out  much 
worse  than  he  is.  We  let  INIaeterlinck  celebrate 
those  moments  of  spiritual  panic  which  he  knows 
to  be  cowardly;  we  let  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling 
263 


All  Things   Considered 

celebrate  those  moments  of  brutality  which  he 
knows  to  be  far  more  cowardly.  We  let  obscene 
writers  write  about  the  obscenities  of  this  ordinary 
man.  We  let  puritan  writers  write  about  the 
purities  of  this  ordinary  man.  We  look  through 
one  peephole  that  makes  men  out  as  devils,  and 
we  call  it  the  new  art.  We  look  through  another 
peephole  that  makes  men  out  as  angels,  and  we  call 
it  the  New  Theology.  But  if  we  pull  down  some 
dusty  old  books  from  the  bookshelf,  if  we  turn  over 
some  old  mildewed  leaves,  and  if  in  that  obscurity 
and  decay  we  find  some  faint  traces  of  a  tale 
about  a  complete  man,  such  a  man  as  is  walking 
on  the  pavement  outside,  we  suddenly  pull  a 
long  face,  and  we  call  it  the  coarse  morals  of  a 
bygone  age. 

The  truth  is  that  all  tliese  things  mark  a  ceitain 
change  in  the  general  view  of  morals  ;  not,  I 
think,  a  change  for  the  better.  We  have  grown 
to  associate  morality  in  a  book  with  a  kind  of 
optimism  and  prettiness;  accon'.ing  to  us,  a  moral 
book  is  a  book  about  moral  people.  But  the  old 
idea  was  almost  exactly  the  opposite;  a  moral 
book  was  a  book  about  immoral  people.  A  moral 
book  was  full  of  pictures  like  Hogarth's  "  Gin 
Lane"  or  "Stages  of  Cruelty,"  or  it  recorded, 
like  the  popular  broadsheet,  "God's  dreadful 
judgment  "  against  some  blasphemer  or  murderer. 
264 


Tom  Jones  and   Morality 

There  is  a  philosophical  reason  for  this  change. 
The  homeless  scepticism  of  our  time  has  reached 
a  sub-conscious  feeling  that  morality  is  somehow 
merely  a  matter  of  human  taste — an  accident  of 
psychology.  And  if  goodness  only  exists  in  certain 
human  minds,  a  man  wishing  to  praise  goodness 
will  naturally  exaggerate  the  amount  of  it  that 
there  is  in  human  minds  or  the  number  of  human 
minds  in  which  it  is  supreme.  Every  confession 
that  man  is  vicious  is  a  confession  that  virtue  is 
visionary.  Every  book  which  admits  that  evil  is 
real  is  felt  in  some  vague  way  to  be  admitting 
that  good  is  unreal.  The  modern  instinct  is  that 
if  the  heart  of  man  is  evil,  there  is  nothing  that 
remains  good.  But  the  older  feeling  was  that 
if  the  heart  of  man  was  ever  so  evil,  there  was 
something  that  remained  good— goodness  remained 
good.  An  actual  avenging  virtue  existed  outside 
the  human  race;  to  that  men  rose,  or  from  that 
men  fell  away.  Therefore,  of  course,  this  law 
itself  was  as  much  demonstrated  in  the  breach 
as  in  the  observance.  If  Tom  Jones  violated 
morality,  so  much  the  worse  for  Tom  Jones. 
Fielding  did  not  feel,  as  a  melancholy  modern 
would  have  done,  that  every  sin  of  Tom  Jones 
was  in  some  way  breaking  the  spell,  or  we  may 
even  say  destroying  the  fiction  of  morality.  Men 
spoke  of  the  sinner  breaking  the  law;  but  it  was 
265 


All  Things   Considered 

rather  the  law  that  broke  him.  And  what  modern 
people  call  the  foulness  and  freedom  of  Fielding 
.is  generally  the  severity  and  moral  stringency 
of  Fielding.  He  would  not  have  thought  that 
he  was  serving  morality  ct  all  if  he  had  written 
a  book  all  about  nice  peoi)le.  Fielding  would 
have  considered  Mr.  Ian  Maclaren  extremely 
immoral;  and  there  is  something  to  be  said 
for  that  view.  Telling  the  truth  about  the 
terrible  struggle  of  the  human  soul  is  surely  a 
very  elementary  part  of  the  ethics  of  honesty.  If 
the  characters  are  not  wicked,  the  book  is. 

This  older  and  firmer  conception  of  right  as 
existing  outside  human  weakness  and  without 
reference  to  human  error,  can  be  felt  in  the  very 
lightest  and  loosest  of  the  works  of  eld  English 
literature.  It  is  commonly  unmeaning  enough 
to  call  Shakspere  a  great  moraUst;  but  in  this 
particular  way  Shakspere  is  a  very  t)  pical  moralist. 
Whenever  he  alludes  to  right  and  wrong  it  is 
always  with  this  old  implicaiion.  Right  is  right, 
even  if  nobody  does  it.  Wrong  is  wrong,  even 
if  everybody  is  wrong  about  it. 


e66 


The  Maid  of  Orleans       ©        ©        © 

A  CONSIDERABLE  time  ago  (at  far  too  early 
-^  an  age,  in  fact)  I  read  Voltaire's  "  La 
Puceile,"  a  savage  sarcasm  on  the  traditional 
purity  of  Joan  of  Arc,  very  dirty,  and  very  funny. 
I  had  not  thought  of  it  again  for  years,  but  it 
came  back  into  my  mind  this  morning  because 
I  began  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  the  new 
"  Jeanne  d'Arc,"  by  that  great  and  graceful  writer, 
Anatole  France.  It  is  written  in  a  tone  of  tender 
sympathy,  and  a  sort  of  sad  reverence;  it  never 
loses  touch  with  a  noble  tact  and  courtesy,  like 
that  of  a  gentleman  escorting  a  peasant  girl  through 
the  modern  crowd.  It  is  invariably  respectful 
to  Joan,  and  even  respectful  to  her  religion.  And 
being  myself  a  furious  admirer  of  Joan  the  Maid, 
I  have  reflectively  compared  the  two  methods,  and 
I  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I  prefer  Voltaire's. 

When  a  man  of  Voltaire's  school  has  to  explode 
a  saint  or  a  great  religious  hero,  he  says  that  such 
a  person  is  a  common  human  fool,  or  a  common 
267 


All   Things   Considered 

human  fraud.  But  when  a  man  like  Anatole 
France  has  to  explode  a  saint,  he  explains  a  saint 
as  somebody  belonging  to  his  particular  fussy  little 
literary  set.  Voltaire  read  human  nature  into  Joan 
of  Arc,  though  it  was  only  the  brutal  part  of 
human  nature.  At  least  it  was  not  specially  Vol- 
taire's nature.  But  M.  France  read  M.  France's 
nature  into  Joan  of  Arc — all  the  cold  kindness, 
all  the  homeless  sentimentalism  of  the  modern 
literary  man.  There  is  one  book  that  it  recalled 
to  me  with  startling  vividness,  though  I  have  not 
seen  the  matter  mentioned  anywhere ;  Renan's 
"Vie  de  Jesus."  It  has  just  the  same  general 
intention  :  that  if  you  do  not  attack  Christianity, 
you  can  at  least  i^atronise  it.  My  own  instinct, 
apart  from  my  opinions,  would  be  quite  the  other 
way.  If  I  disbelieved  in  Christianity,  I  should  be 
the  loudest  blaspliemer  in  Hyde  Park.  Nothing 
ought  to  be  too  big  for  a  brave  man  to  attack  ; 
but  there  are  some  things  too  big  for  a  man  to 
patronise. 

And  I  must  say  that  the  historical  method  seems 
to  me  excessively  unreasonable.  I  have  no  know- 
ledge of  history,  but  1  have  as  much  knowledge  of 
reason  as  Anatole  France.  And,  if  anything  is 
irrational,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  Renan-France 
way  of  dealing  with  miraculous  stories  is  irrational. 
'I'he  Renan-France  method  is  simply  this  :  you 
268 


The   Maid  of  Orleans 

explain  supernatural  stories  that  have  some  foun- 
dation simply  by  inventing  natural  stories  that 
have  no  foundation.  Suppose  that  you  are  con- 
fronted with  the  statement  that  Jack  climbed  up 
the  beanstalk  into  the  sky.  It  is  perfectly  philo- 
sophical to  reply  that  you  do  not  think  that  he 
did.  It  is  (in  my  opinion)  even  more  philo- 
sophical to  reply  that  he  may  very  probably  have 
done  so.  But  the  Renan- France  method  is  to 
write  like  this  :  "  When  we  consider  Jack's  curious 
and  even  perilous  heredity,  which  no  doubt  was 
derived  from  a  female  greengrocer  and  a  profli- 
gate priest,  we  can  easily  understand  how  the 
ideas  of  heaven  and  a  beanstalk  came  to  be  com- 
bined in  his  mind.  Moreover,  there  is  little  doubt 
that  he  must  have  met  some  wandering  conjurer 
from  India,  who  told  him  about  the  tricks  of  the 
mango  plant,  and  how  it  is  sent  up  to  the  sky. 
We  can  imagine  these  two  friends,  the  old  man 
and  the  young,  wandering  in  the  woods  together 
at  evening,  looking  at  the  red  and  level  clouds,  as 
on  that  night  when  the  old  man  pointed  to  a  small 
beanstalk,  and  told  his  too  imaginative  companion 
that  this  also  might  be  made  to  scale  the  heavens. 
And  then,  when  we  remember  the  quite  excep- 
tional psychology  of  Jack,  when  we  remember 
how  there  was  in  him  a  union  of  the  prosaic,  the 
love  of  plain  vegetables,  with  an  almost  irrelevant 
269 


All   Things   Considered 

eagerness  for  the  unattainable,  for  invisibility  and 
the  void,  we  shall  no  longer  wonder  that  it  was  to 
him  especially  that  was  sent  this  sweet,  though 
merely  symbolic,  dream  of  the  tree  uniting  earth 
and  heaven."  That  is  the  way  that  Renan  and 
France  write,  only  they  do  it  better.  But,  really, 
a  rationalist  like  myself  becomes  a  liltlc  impatient 
and  feels  inclined  to  say,  "  But,  hang  it  all,  what 
do  you  know  about  the  heredity  of  Jack  or  the 
psychology  of  Jack  ?  You  know  nothing  about 
Jack  at  all,  except  that  some  people  say  that  he 
climbed  up  a  beanstalk.  Nobody  would  ever 
have  thought  of  mentioning  him  if  he  hadn't. 
You  must  interpret  him  in  terms  of  tl  e  beanstalk 
religion  ;  you  cannot  merely  interpret  religion  in 
terms  of  him.  We  have  the  materials  of  this  story, 
and  we  can  believe  them  or  not.  But  we  have 
not  got  the  materials  to  make  another  story." 

It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  this  is  the 
manner  of  M.  Anatole  France  in  dealing  with 
Joan  of  Arc  Because  her  miracle  is  incredible 
to  his  somewhat  old-fashioned  materialism,  he 
does  not  therefore  dismiss  it  and  her  to  fairyland 
with  Jack  and  the  Beanstalk.  He  tries  to  invent 
a  real  story,  lor  which  he  can  find  no  real  evi- 
dence. He  produces  a  scientific  explanation 
which  is  quite  destitute  of  any  scientific  proof.  It 
is  as  if  I  (being  entirely  ignorant  of  botany  and 
270 


The   Maid   of  Orleans 

chemistry)  said  that  the  beanstalk  grew  to  the  sky 
because  nitrogen  and  argon  got  into  the  subsidiary 
ducts  of  the  corolla.  To  take  the  most  obvious 
example,  the  principal  character  in  M.  France's 
story  is  a  person  who  never  existed  at  all.  All 
Joan's  wisdom  and  energy,  it  seems,  came  from  a 
certain  priest,  of  whom  there  is  not  the  tiniest 
trace  in  all  the  multitudinous  records  of  her  life. 
The  only  foundation  I  can  find  for  this  fancy  is 
the  highly  undemocratic  idea  that  a  peasant  girl 
could  not  possibly  have  any  ideas  of  her  own.  It 
is  very  hard  for  a  freethinker  to  remain  democratic. 
The  writer  seems  altogether  to  forget  what  is 
meant  by  the  moral  atmosphere  of  a  community. 
To  say  that  Joan  must  have  learnt  her  vision  of 
a  virgin  overthrowing  evil  from  a  priest,  is  like 
saying  that  some  modern  girl  in  London,  pitying 
the  poor,  must  have  learnt  it  from  a  Labour 
Member.  She  would  learn  it  where  the  Labour 
INIember  learnt  it  —  in  the  whole  state  of  our 
society. 

But  that  is  the  modern  method  :  the  method 
of  the  reverent  sceptic.  When  you  find  a  life 
entirely  incredible  and  incomprehensible  from  the 
outside,  you  pretend  that  you  understand  the 
inside.  As  Renan,  the  rationalist,  could  not  make 
any  sense  out  of  Christ's  most  public  acts,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  make  an  ingenious  system  out  of  His 
271 


All   Things   Considered 


private  thoughts.  As  Anatole  France,  on  his  own 
intellectual  principle,  cannot  believe  in  what  Joan 
of  Arc  did,  he  professes  to  be  her  dearest  friend 
and  to  know  exactly  what  she  meant.  I  cannot 
feel  it  to  be  a  very  rational  manner  of  writing 
history;  and  sooner  or  later  we  shall  have  to  find 
some  more  solid  way  of  dealing  with  those  spiritual 
phenomena  with  which  all  history  is  as  closely 
spotted  and  spangled  as  the  sky  is  with  stars. 

Joan  of  Arc  is  a  wild  and  wonderful  thing 
enough,  but  she  is  much  saner  than  most  of  her 
critics  and  biographers.  We  shall  not  recover  the 
common  sense  of  Joan  until  we  have  recovered  her 
mysticism.  Our  wars  fail,  because  they  begin 
with  something  sensible  and  obvious — such  as 
getting  to  Pretoria  by  Christmas.  But  her  war 
succeeded — because  it  began  with  something  wild 
and  perfect — the  saints  delivering  France.  She 
put  her  idealism  in  the  right  place,  and  her  realism 
also  in  the  riyht  place  :  we  moderns  get  both  dis- 
placed. She  put  her  dreams  and  her  sentiment 
into  her  aims,  where  they  ought  to  be ;  she  put 
her  practicality  into  her  practice.  In  modern 
Imperial  wars,  the  case  is  reversed.  Our  dreams, 
our  aims  are  always,  we  insist,  quite  practical.  It 
is  our  practice  that  is  dreamy. 

It  is  not  for  us  to  explain  this  flaming  figure  in 
terms  of  our  tired  and  querulous  culture.  Rather 
37« 


The   Maid  of  Orleans 

we  must  try  to  explain  ourselves  by  the  blaze  of 
such  fixed  stars.  Those  who  called  her  a  witch 
hot  from  hell  were  much  more  sensible  than  those 
who  depict  her  as  a  silly  sentimental  maiden 
prompted  by  her  parish  priest.  If  I  have  to  choose 
between  the  two  schools  of  her  scattered  enemies, 
I  could  take  my  place  with  those  subtle  clerks  who 
thought  her  divine  mission  devilish,  rather  than 
with  those  rustic  aunts  and  uncles  who  thought 
it  impossible. 


273 


A  Dead  Poet        ©        ®        ®        ©        © 

^X  nTH  Francis  Thompson  we  lose  the  greatest 
poetic  energy  since  Browning.  His  energy 
was  of  somewhat  the  same  kind.  Browning  was 
intellectually  intricate  because  he  was  morally 
simple.  He  was  too  simple  to  explain  himself; 
he  was  too  humble  to  suppose  that  other  people 
needed  any  explanation.  But  his  real  energy,  and 
the  real  energy  of  Francis  Thompson,  was  best 
expressed  in  the  fact  that  both  poets  were  at  once 
fond  of  immensity  and  also  fond  of  detail.  Any 
common  Imperialist  can  have  large  ideas  so  long 
as  he  is  not  called  upon  to  have  small  ideas  also. 
Any  common  scientific  philosopher  can  have  small 
ideas  so  long  as  he  is  not  called  upon  to  have 
large  ideas  as  well.  But  great  poets  use  the  tele- 
scope and  also  the  microscope.  Great  poets  are 
obscure  for  two  opposite  reasons ;  now,  because 
they  are  talking  about  something  too  large  for  any 
one  to  understand,  and  now  again  because  they 
are  talking  about  something  too  small  for  any  one 
275 


All   Things   Considered 

to  sec.  Francis  Tliompson  possessed  both  these 
infinities.  He  escaped  by  being  too  small,  as  the 
microbe  escapes ;  or  he  escaped  by  bein^  too 
large,  as  the  universe  escapes.  Any  one  who 
knows  Francis  Thompson's  poetry  knows  quite 
well  the  truth  to  which  I  refer.  For  the  benefit 
of  any  person  who  does  not  know  it,  I  may  mention 
two  cases  taken  from  memory.  I  have  not  the 
book  by  me,  so  I  can  only  render  the  poetical 
passages  in  a  clumsy  paraphrase.  But  there  was 
one  poem  of  which  the  image  was  so  vast  that  it 
was  literally  difficult  for  a  time  to  take  it  in ;  he 
was  describing  the  evening  earth  with  its  mist  and 
fume  and  fragrance,  and  represented  the  whole  as 
rolling  upwards  like  a  smoke;  then  suddenly  he 
called  the  whole  ball  of  the  earth  a  thurible,  and 
said  that  some  gigantic  spirit  swung  it  slowly  before 
God.  That  is  the  case  of  the  image  too  large  for 
comprehension.  Another  instance  sticks  in  my 
mind  of  the  image  which  is  too  small.  In  one  of 
his  poems,  he  says  that  abyss  between  the  known 
and  the  unknown  is  bridged  by  "  Pontifical  death." 
There  are  about  ten  historical  and  theological  puns 
in  that  one  word.  That  a  priest  means  a  ponliflT, 
that  a  pontiff  means  a  bridge- maker,  that  death 
is  certainly  a  bridge,  that  death  may  turn  out  after 
all  to  be  a  reconciling  priest,  that  at  least  priests 
and  bridges  both  attest  to  the  fact  that  one  thing 
276 


A  Dead  Poet 

can  get  separated  from  another  thing — these  ideas, 
and  twenty  more,  are  all  actually  concentrated  in 
the  word  "  pontifical."  In  Francis  Thompson's 
poetry,  as  in  the  poetry  of  the  universe,  you  can 
work  infinitely  out  and  out,  but  yet  infinitely  in 
and  in.  These  two  infinities  are  the  mark  of 
greatness ;  and  he  was  a  great  poet. 

Beneath  the  tide  of  praise  which  was  obviously 
due  to  the  dead  poet,  there  is  an  evident  under- 
current of  discussion  about  him  ;  some  charges  of 
moral  weakness  were  at  least  important  enough  to 
lie  authoritatively  contradicted  in  the  Nation  ;  and, 
in  connection  with  this  and  other  things,  there  has 
been  a  continuous  stir  of  comment  upon  his 
attraction  to  and  gradual  absorption  in  Catholic 
theological  ideas.  This  question  is  so  important 
that  I  think  it  ought  to  be  considered  and  under- 
stood even  at  the  present  time.  It  is,  of  course, 
true  that  Francis  Thompson  devoted  himself  more 
and  more  to  poems  not  only  purely  Catholic,  but, 
one  may  say,  purely  ecclesiastical.  And  it  is, 
moreover,  true  that  (if  things  go  on  as  they  are 
going  on  at  present)  more  and  more  good  poets 
will  do  the  same.  Poets  will  tend  towards  Chris- 
tian orthodoxy  for  a  perfectly  plain  reason  :  because 
it  is  about  the  simplest  and  freest  thing  now  kft  in 
the  world.  On  this  point  it  is  very  necessary  to 
be  clear.  When  people  impute  special  vices  to  the 
277 


All   Things   Considered 

Christian  Church,  they  seem  entirely  to  forget  that 
the  world  (which  is  the  only  other  thing  there  is) 
has  these  vices  much  more.  The  Church  has  been 
cruel ;  but  the  world  has  been  much  more  cruel. 
The  Church  has  plotted;  but  the  world  has  plotted 
much  more.  The  Church  has  been  superstitious  ; 
hut  it  has  never  been  so  superstitious  as  the  world 
is  when  left  to  itself. 

Now,  poets  in  our  epoch  will  tend  towards 
ecclesiastical  religion  strictly  because  it  is  just  a 
little  more  free  than  anything  else.  Take,  for 
instance,  the  case  of  symbol  and  ritualism.  All 
reasonable  men  believe  in  symbol ;  but  some 
reasonable  men  do  not  believe  in  ritualism ;  by 
which  they  mean,  I  imagine,  a  symbolism  too 
complex,  elaborate,  and  mechanical.  But  when- 
ever they  talk  of  ritualism  they  always  seem  to 
mean  the  ritualism  of  the  Church.  Why  should 
they  not  mean  the  ritual  of  the  world  ?  It  is  much 
more  ritualistic.  The  ritual  of  the  Army,  the 
ritual  of  the  Navy,  the  ritual  of  the  Law  Courts, 
the  ritual  of  Parliament  are  much  more  ritualistic. 
The  ritual  of  a  dinner-party  is  much  more  ritual- 
istic. Priests  may  put  gold  and  great  jewels  on  the 
chalice ;  but  at  least  there  is  only  one  chalice  to 
put  them  on.  When  you  go  to  a  dinner-party  they 
put  in  front  of  you  five  different  chalices,  of  five 
weird  and  heraldic  shajies,  to  symbolise  five 
278 


A  Dead  Poet 

different  kinds  of  wine;  an  insane  extension  of 
ritual  from  which  Mr.  Percy  Dearmer  would  f^y 
shrieking.  A  bishop  wears  a  mitre;  but  he  is 
not  thought  more  or  less  of  a  bishop  according 
to  whether  you  can  see  the  very  latest  curves  in 
his  mitre.  But  a  swell  is  thought  more  or  less  of 
a  swell  according  to  whether  you  can  see  the  very 
latest  curves  in  his  hat.  There  is  more/i/ss  about 
symbols  in  the  world  than  in  the  Church. 

And  yet  (strangely  enough)  though  men  fuss 
more  about  the  worldly  symbols,  they  mean  less 
by  them.  It  is  the  mark  of  religious  forms  that 
they  declare  something  unknown.  But  it  is  the 
mark  of  worldly  forms  that  they  declare  something 
which  is  known,  and  which  is  known  to  be  untrue. 
When  the  Pope  in  an  Encyclical  calls  himself  your 
father,  it  is  a  matter  of  faith  or  of  doubt.  But  when 
the  Duke  of  Devonshire  in  a  letter  calls  himself 
yours  obediently,  you  know  that  he  means  the 
opposite  of  what  he  says.  Religious  forms  are, 
at  the  worst,  fables;  they  might  be  true.  Secular 
forms  are  falsehoods ;  they  are  not  true.  Take  a 
more  topical  case.  The  German  Emperor  has 
more  uniforms  than  the  Pope.  But,  moreover,  the 
Pope's  vestments  all  imply  a  claim  to  be  some- 
thing purely  mystical  and  doubtful.  Many  of  the 
German  Emperor's  uniforms  imply  a  claim  to  be 
something  which  he  certainly  is  not  and  which  it 
279 


All   Things   Considered 

would  be  highly  disgusting  if  he  were.  The  Pope 
may  or  may  not  be  the  Vicar  of  Christ.  Bvit  the 
Kaiser  certainly  is  not  an  Knglish  Colonel.  If  the 
thing  were  reality  it  would  be  treason.  If  it  is 
mere  ritual,  it  is  by  far  the  most  unreal  ritual  on 
eailh. 

Now,  poetical  people  like  Francis  Thomj^son 
will,  as  things  stand,  tend  away  from  secular 
society  and  towards  religion  for  the  reason  above 
described  :  that  there  are  crowds  of  symbols  in 
both,  but  that  those  of  religion  are  simjjler  and 
mean  more.  To  take  an  evident  type,  the  Cross 
is  more  poetical  than  the  Union  Jack,  because  it 
is  simpler.  The  more  simple  an  idea  is,  the  more 
it  is  fertile  in  variations.  Francis  Thompson  could 
have  written  any  number  of  good  poems  on  the 
Cro^s,  because  it  is  a  primary  syml)ol.  The  number 
of  poems  which  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling  could  write 
on  the  Union  Jack  is,  fortunately,  limited,  because 
the  Union  Jack  is  too  complex  to  produce  luxuri- 
ance. The  same  principle  applies  to  any  possible 
number  of  cases,  A  poet  like  Francis  Thompson 
could  deduce  perpetually  rich  and  branching  mean- 
ings out  of  two  plain  facts  like  bread  and  wine ; 
with  bread  and  wine  he  can  expand  everything  to 
everywhere.  But  with  a  French  menu  he  cannot 
expand  anything;  except  perhaps  himself.  Coni- 
plii  ated  ideas  do  not  produce  any  more  ideas. 
260 


A  Dead  Poet 

Mongrels  do  not  breed.  Religious  ritual  attracts 
because  there  is  some  sense  in  it.  Religious 
imagery,  so  far  from  being  subtle,  is  the  only 
simple  thing  left  for  poets.  So  far  from  being 
merely  superhuman,  it  is  the  only  human  thing 
left  for  human  beings. 


8Sl 


Christmas       ©        ©       ©        ©        O 

'T^PIERE  is  no  more  dangerous  or  disgusting 
•^  habit  than  that  of  celebrating  Christmas 
before  it  comes,  as  I  am  doing  in  this  article.  It 
is  the  very  essence  of  a  festival  that  it  breaks  upon 
one  brilliantly  and  abruptly,  that  at  one  moment 
the  great  day  is  not  and  the  next  moment  the 
great  day  is.  Up  to  a  certain  specific  instant  you 
are  feeling  ordinary  and  sad ;  for  it  is  only 
Wednesday.  At  the  next  moment  your  heart 
leaps  up  and  your  soul  and  body  dance  together 
like  lovers;  for  in  one  burst  and  blaze  it  has 
become  Thursday.  I  am  assuming  (of  course)  that 
you  are  a  worshipper  of  Thor,  and  that  you  celebrate 
his  day  once  a  week,  possibly  with  human  sacrifice. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  are  a  modern  Christian 
Englishman,  you  hail  (of  course)  with  the  same 
explosion  of  gaiety  the  appearance  of  the  English 
Sunday.  But  I  say  that  whatever  the  day  is  that 
is  to  you  festive  or  symbolic,  it  is  essential  that 
there  should  be  a  quite  clear  black  line  between  it 
2S3 


All    Things   Considered 

and  the  lime  going  before.  And  all  the  old  whole- 
some customs  in  connection  with  Christmas  were 
to  the  effect  that  one  should  not  touch  or  see  or 
know  or  speak  of  something  before  the  actual 
coming  of  Christmas  Day.  Thus,  for  instance, 
children  were  never  given  their  presents  until  the 
actual  coming  of  the  api)ointed  hour.  The  presents 
were  kept  tied  up  in  brown-paper  parcels,  out  of 
which  an  arm  of  a  doll  or  the  leg  of  a  donkey 
sometimes  accidentally  stuck.  I  wish  this  prin- 
ciple were  adopted  in  respect  of  modern  Christmas 
ceremonies  and  publications.  Especially  it  ought 
to  be  observed  in  connection  with  what  are  called 
the  Christmas  numbers  of  magazines.  The  editors 
of  the  magazines  bring  out  their  Christmas  numbers 
so  long  before  the  time  that  the  reader  is  more 
likely  to  be  still  lamenting  for  the  turkey  of  last 
year  than  to  have  seriously  settled  down  to  a 
solid  anticipation  of  the  turkey  which  is  to 
come.  Christmas  numbers  of  magazines  ought 
to  be  tied  up  in  brown  paper  and  kept  for 
Christmas  Day.  On  consideration,  I  should 
favour  the  editors  being  tied  up  in  brown  paper. 
Whether  the  leg  or  arm  of  an  editor  should  ever 
be  allowed  to  protrude  I  leave  to  individual 
choice. 

Of  cotnso,  all  this   secrecy  about  Christmas  is 
merely  sentimental  and  ceremonial  ;  if  you  do  not 

2S4 


Christmas 

like  \vliat  is  sentimental  and  ceremonial,  do  not 
celebrate  Christmas  at  all.  You  will  not  be 
punished  if  you  don't ;  also,  since  we  are  no 
longer  ruled  by  those  sturdy  Puritans  who  won 
for  us  civil  and  religious  liberty,  you  will  not  even 
be  punished  if  you  do.  But  I  cannot  understand 
why  any  one  should  bother  about  a  ceremonial 
except  ceremonially.  If  a  thing  only  exists  in 
order  to  be  graceful,  do  it  grjcefully  or  do  not  do 
it.  If  a  thing  only  exists  as  something  professing 
to  be  solemn,  do  it  solemnly  or  do  not  do  it. 
There  is  no  sense  in  doing  it  slouchingly;  nor  is 
there  even  any  liberty.  I  can  understand  the  man 
who  takes  off  his  hat  to  a  lady  because  it  is  the 
customary  symbol.  I  can  understand  him,  I  say  ; 
in  fact,  I  know  him  quite  intimately.  I  can  also 
understand  the  man  who  refuses  to  take  off  his 
hat  to  a  lady,  like  the  old  Quakers,  because  he 
thinks  that  a  symbol  is  superstition.  But  what 
point  would  there  be  in  so  performing  an  arbitrary 
form  of  respect  that  it  was  not  a  form  of  respect? 
^\'e  respect  the  gentleman  who  takes  off  his  hat 
to  the  lady;  we  respect  the  fanatic  who  will  not 
take  off  his  hat  to  the  lady.  But  what  should 
we  think  of  the  man  who  kept  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  asked  the  lady  to  take  his  hat  off  for 
him  because  he  felt  tired  ? 

This   is   combining  insolence  and  superstition; 
2S5 


All  Things  Considered 

and  the  nioilcrn  world  is  full  of  the  strange 
combination.  There  is  no  mark  of  the  immense 
weak-mindcdncssof  modernity  that  is  more  striking 
than  this  general  disposition  to  keep  up  old  forms, 
but  to  keep  them  up  informally  and  feebly.  Why 
take  something  which  was  only  meant  to  be  re- 
spectful and  preserve  it  disrespectfully?  Why 
take  something  which  you  could  easily  abolish  as 
a  superstition  and  carefully  perpetuate  it  as  a  bore  ? 
There  have  been  many  instances  of  this  half- 
witted compromise.  Was  it  not  true,  for  instance, 
that  the  other  day  some  mad  American  was  trying 
to  buy  Glastonbury  Abbey  and  transfer  it  stone 
by  stone  to  America?  Such  things  are  not  only 
illogical,  but  idiotic.  There  is  no  particular  reason 
why  a  pushing  American  financier  should  pay 
respect  to  Glastonbury  Abbey  at  all.  But  if  he 
is  to  pay  respect  to  Glastonbury  Abbey,  he  must 
pay  respect  to  Glastonbury.  If  it  is  a  matter  of 
sentiment,  why  should  he  spoil  the  scene  ?  If  it 
is  not  a  matter  of  sentiment,  why  should  he  ever 
have  visited  the  scene  ?  To  call  this  kind  of 
thing  Vandalism  is  a  very  inadequate  and  unfair 
description.  The  Vandals  were  very  sensible 
people.  They  did  not  believe  in  a  religion,  and 
so  they  insulted  it ;  they  did  not  see  any  use  for 
certain  buildings,  and  so  they  knocked  them  down. 
But  they  were  not  such  fools  as  to  encumber  their 
2S6 


Christmas 

march  with  the  fragments  of  the  edifice  they  had 
themselves  spoilt.  They  were  at  least  superior  to 
the  modern  American  mode  of  reasoning.  They 
did  not  desecrate  the  stones  because  they  held 
them  sacred. 

Another  instance  of  the  same  illogicality  I 
observed  the  other  day  at  some  kind  of  "  At 
Home."  I  saw  what  appeared  to  be  a  human 
being  dressed  in  a  black  evening-coat,  black  dress- 
waistcoat,  and  black  dress-trousers,  but  with  a 
shirt-front  made  of  Jaeger  wool.  What  can  be 
the  sense  of  this  sort  of  thing  ?  If  a  man  thinks 
hygiene  more  important  than  convention  (a  selfish 
and  heathen  view,  for  the  beasts  that  perish  are 
more  hygienic  than  man,  and  man  is  only  above 
them  because  he  is  more  conventional),  if,  I  say, 
a  man  thinks  that  hygiene  is  more  important  than 
convention,  what  on  earth  is  there  to  oblige  him 
to  wear  a  shirt-front  at  all?  But  to  take  a 
costume  of  which  the  only  conceivable  cause  or 
advantage  is  that  it  is  a  sort  of  uniform,  and  then 
not  wear  it  in  the  uniform  way — this  is  to  be 
neither  a  Bohemian  nor  a  gentleman.  It  is  a 
foolish  affectation,  I  think,  in  an  English  officer 
of  the  Life  Guards  never  to  wear  his  uniform  if 
he  can  help  it.  But  it  would  be  more  foolish 
still  if  he  showed  himself  about  town  in  a  scarlet 
coat  and  a  Jaeger  breast-plate.  It  is  the  custom 
287 


All  Things   Considered 

nowadays  to  have  Ritual  Commissions  and  Ritual 
Reports  to  mike  rather  unmeaning  compromises 
in  the  ceremonial  of  the  Church  of  England.  So 
perhaps  we  shall  have  an  ecclesiastical  compromise 
by  which  all  the  Bishops  shall  wear  Jaeger  copes 
and  Jaeger  mitres.  Similarly  the  King  might 
insist  on  having  a  Jaeger  crown.  But  I  do  not 
think  he  will,  for  he  understands  the  logic  of  the 
matter  better  than  that.  The  modern  monarch, 
like  a  reasonable  fellow,  wears  his  crown  as  seldom 
as  he  can  ;  but  if  he  does  it  at  all,  then  the  only 
point  of  a  crown  is  that  it  is  a  crown.  So  let  me 
assure  the  unknown  gentleman  in  the  woollen 
vesture  that  the  only  point  of  a  white  shirt-front  is 
that  it  is  a  wliite  shirt-front.  Stiffness  may  be  its 
impossible  defect ;  but  it  is  certainly  its  only 
possible  merit. 

Let  us  be  consistent,  therefore,  about  Christ- 
mas, and  either  keep  customs  or  not  keep  them. 
If  you  do  not  like  sentiment  and  symbolism,  you 
do  not  like  Christmas ;  go  away  and  celebrate 
something  else ;  I  should  suggest  the  birthday  of 
Mr.  McCabe.  No  doubt  you  could  have  a  sort 
of  scientific  Christmas  with  a  hygienic  pudding 
and  highly  instructive  presents  stuffed  into  a  Jaeger 
stocking;  go  and  have  it  then.  If  you  like  those 
things,  doubtless  you  are  a  good  sort  of  fellow,  and 
your  intentions  are  excellent.     I  have  no  doubt 

2SS 


Christmas 

that  you  are  really  interested  in  humanity;  but  I 
cannot  think  that  humanity  will  ever  be  much 
interested  in  you.  Humanity  is  unhygienic  from 
its  very  nature  and  beginning.  It  is  so  much 
an  exception  in  Nature  that  the  laws  of  Nature 
really  mean  nothing  to  it.  Now  Christmas  is 
attacked  also  on  the  humanitarian  ground.  Ouida 
called  it  a  feast  of  slaughter  and  gluttony.  Mr. 
Shaw  suggested  that  it  was  invented  by  poulterers. 
That  should  be  considered  before  it  becomes  more 
considerable. 

I  do  not  know  whether  an  animal  killed  at 
Christmas  has  had  a  better  or  a  worse  time  than 
it  would  have  had  if  there  had  been  no  Christmas 
or  no  Christmas  dinners.  But  I  do  know  that 
the  fighting  and  suffering  brotherhood  to  which 
I  belong  and  owe  everything,  Mankind,  would 
have  a  much  worse  time  if  there  were  no  such 
thing  as  Christmas  or  Christmas  dinners.  Whether 
the  turkey  which  Scrooge  gave  to  Bob  Cratchit 
had  experienced  a  lovelier  or  more  melancholy 
career  than  that  of  less  attractive  turkeys  is  a 
subject  upon  which  I  cannot  even  conjecture.  But 
that  Scrooge  was  better  for  giving  the  turkey  and 
Cratchit  happier  for  getting  it  I  know  as  two  facts, 
as  I  know  that  I  have  two  feet.  What  life  and 
death  may  be  to  a  turkey  is  not  my  business  ;  but 
the  soul  of  Scrooge  and  the  body  of  Cratchit  are 


All  Things  Considered 

my  business.  Nothing  shall  induce  nie  to  darken 
human  homes,  to  destroy  human  festivities,  tc 
insult  human  gifts  and  human  benefactions  for 
the  sake  of  some  hypothetical  knowledge  which 
Nature  curtained  from  our  eyes.  We  men  and 
women  are  all  in  the  same  boat,  upon  a  stormy 
sea.  We  owe  to  each  other  a  terrible  and  tragic 
loyalty.  If  we  catch  sharks  for  food,  let  them  be 
killed  most  mercifully;  let  any  one  who  likes  love 
the  sharks,  and  pet  the  sharks,  and  tie  ribbons 
round  their  necks  and  give  them  sugar  and 
teach  them  to  dance.  But  if  once  a  man 
suggests  that  a  shark  is  to  be  valued  against  a 
sailor,  or  that  the  poor  shark  might  be  per- 
mitted to  bite  off  a  nigger's  leg  occasionally ; 
then  I  would  court-martial  the  man — he  is  a 
traitor  to  the  ship. 

And  while  I  take  this  view  of  humaniiarianism 
of  the  anti-Christmas  kind,  it  is  cogent  to  say  that 
I  am  a  strong  anti-vivisectionist.  That  is,  if  there 
is  any  vivisection,  I  am  against  it.  I  am  against 
the  cutting-up  of  conscious  dogs  for  the  same 
reason  that  I  am  in  favour  of  the  eating  of  dead 
turkeys.  The  connection  may  not  be  obvious ; 
but  that  is  because  of  the  strangely  unhealthy 
condition  of  modern  thought.  I  am  against  cruel 
vivisection  as  I  am  against  a  cruel  anti  Christmas 
asceticism,  because  they  both  involve  the  upsetting 
290 


Christmas 

of  existing  fellowships  and  the  shocking  of  normal 
good  feelings  for  the  sake  of  something  that  is 
intellectual,  fanciful,  and  remote.  It  is  not  a 
human  thing,  it  is  not  a  humane  thing,  when  you 
see  a  poor  woman  staring  hungrily  at  a  bloater, 
to  think,  not  of  the  obvious  feelings  of  the  woman, 
but  of  the  unimnginable  feelings  of  the  deceased 
bloater.  Similarly,  it  is  not  human,  it  is  not 
humane,  when  you  look  at  a  dog  to  think  about 
what  theoretic  discoveries  you  might  possibly 
make  if  you  were  allowed  to  bore  a  hole  in  his 
head.  Both  the  humanitarians'  fancy  about  the 
feelings  concealed  inside  the  bloater,  and  the  vivi- 
sectionists'  fancy  about  the  knowledge  concealed 
inside  the  dog,  are  unhealthy  fancies,  because 
they  upset  a  human  sanity  that  is  certain  for 
the  sake  of  something  that  is  of  necessity  un- 
certain. The  vivisectionist,  for  the  sake  of  doing 
something  that  may  or  may  not  be  useful,  does 
something  that  certainly  is  horrible.  The  anti- 
Christmas  humanitarian,  in  seeking  to  have  a 
sympathy  with  a  turkey  which  no  man  can 
have  with  a  turkey,  loses  the  sympathy  he 
has  already  with  the  happiness  of  millions  of 
the  poor. 

It  is  not  uncommon  nowadays  for  the  insane 
extremes  in  reality  to  meet.     Thus  I  have  always 
felt  that  brutal    Imperialism   and  Tolstoian  non- 
291 


All    Things   Considered 

resistance  were  not  only  not  opposite,  but  were 
the  same  thing.  They  are  tlie  same  contemptible 
thought  that  conquest  cannot  be  resisted,  looked 
at  from  the  two  standpoints  of  the  conqueror  and 
the  concpiercd.  Thus  again  teetotalism  and  the 
really  degraded  gin-selling  and  dram-drinking  have 
exactly  the  same  moral  philosophy.  They  are  both 
based  on  the  idea  that  fermented  liquor  is  not 
a  drink,  but  a  drug.  But  I  am  specially  certain 
ihut  the  extreme  of  vegetarian  humanity  is,  as  I 
have  said,  akin  to  the  extreme  of  scientific  cruelly 
— they  both  permit  a  dubious  speculation  to  inter- 
fere with  their  ordinary  charity.  The  sound  moral 
rule  in  such  matters  as  vivisection  always  presents 
itself  to  me  in  this  way.  There  is  no  ethical 
necessity  more  essential  and  vital  than  this :  that 
casuistical  exceptions,  though  admitted,  should  be 
admitted  as  exceptions.  And  it  follows  from  this, 
I  think,  that,  though  we  may  do  a  horrid  thing  in 
a  horrid  situation,  we  must  be  quite  certain  that 
we  actually  and  already  are  in  that  situation. 
Thus,  all  sane  moralists  admit  that  one  may 
sometimes  tell  a  lie ;  but  no  sane  moralist  would 
approve  of  telling  a  little  boy  to  practise  telling 
lies,  in  case  he  might  one  day  have  to  tell  a  justi- 
fiable one.  Thus,  morality  has  often  justified 
shooting  a  robber  or  a  burglar.  But  it  would 
not  justify  going  into  the  village  Sunday  school 

2y2 


Christmas 

and  shooting  all  the  little  boys  who  looked  as 
if  they  might  grow  up  into  burglars.  Tlie  need 
may  arise;  but  the  need  must  have  arisen.  It 
seems  to  me  quite  clear  that  if  you  step  across  this 
limit  you  step  off  a  precipice. 

Now,  whether  torturing  an  animal  is  or  is  not 
an  immoral  thing,  it  is,  at  least,  a  dreadful  thing. 
It  belongs  to  the  order  of  exceptional  and  even 
desperate  acts.  Except  for  some  extraordinary 
reason  I  would  not  grievously  hurt  an  animal ; 
with  an  extraordinary  reason  I  would  grievously 
hurt  him.  If  (for  example)  a  mad  elephant  were 
pursuing  me  and  my  family,  and  I  could  only 
shoot  him  so  that  he  would  die  in  agony,  he 
would  have  to  die  in  agony.  But  the  elephant 
would  be  there.  I  would  not  do  it  to  a  hypo- 
thetical elephant.  Now,  it  always  seems  to  me 
that  this  is  the  weak  point  in  the  ordinary  vivi- 
sectionist  argument,  "  Suppose  your  wife  were 
dying."  Vivisection  is  not  done  by  a  man  whose 
wife  is  dying.  If  it  were  it  might  be  lifted  to  the 
level  of  the  moment,  as  would  be  lying  or  stealing 
bread,  or  any  other  ugly  action.  But  this  ugly 
action  is  done  in  cold  blood,  at  leisure,  by  men 
who  are  not  sure  that  it  will  be  of  any  use  to 
anybody — men  of  whom  the  most  that  can  be 
said  is  that  they  may  conceivably  make  the  be- 
ginnings of  some  discovery  which  may  perhaps 
293 


All   Things   Cojisidercd 

save  the  life  of  some  one  else's  wife  in  some 
remote  future.  That  is  too  cukl  and  distant  to 
rob  an  act  of  its  immediate  horror.  That  is  like 
training  the  child  to  tell  lies  for  the  sake  of  some 
great  dilemma  that  may  never  come  to  him.  You 
are  doing  a  cruel  thing,  but  not  with  enough 
passion  to  make  it  a  kindly  one. 

So  much  for  why  I  am  an  anti-viviseclionist ; 
and  I  should  like  to  say,  in  conclusion,  that 
all  other  anti-vivisectionists  of  my  arquaintance 
weaken  their  case  infinitely  by  forming  this  attack 
on  a  scientific  speciality  in  which  the  human  lieart 
is  commonly  on  their  siile,  with  attacks  upon 
universal  human  customs  in  which  the  human 
heart  is  not  at  all  on  their  side.  I  have  heard 
humanitarians,  for  instance,  speak  of  vivisection 
and  field  sports  as  if  they  were  the  same  kind  of 
thing.  The  difference  seems  to  me  simple  and 
enormous.  In  sport  a  man  goes  into  a  wood  and 
mi.xes  with  the  existing  life  of  that  wood;  be- 
comes a  destroyer  only  in  the  simple  and  healthy 
sense  in  which  all  the  creatures  are  destroyers; 
becomes  for  one  moment  to  them  what  they  are  to 
him — another  animal.  In  vivisection  a  man  takes 
a  simpler  creature  and  subjects  it  to  subtleties 
which  no  one  but  man  could  inflict  on  him,  and 
for  which  man  is  therefore  gravely  and  terribly 
rcsijonsible. 

294 


Christmas 

Meanwhile,  it  remains  true  that  I  shall  eat  a 
great  deal  of  turkey  this  Christmas;  and  it  is  not 
in  the  least  true  (as  the  vegetarians  say)  that  I 
shall  do  it  because  I  do  not  realise  what  I  am 
doing,  or  because  I  do  what  I  know  is  wrong,  or 
that  I  do  it  with  shame  or  doubt  or  a  fundamental 
unrest  of  conscience.  In  one  sense  I  know  quite 
well  what  I  am  doing;  in  another  sense  I  know 
quite  well  that  I  know  not  what  I  do.  Scrooge 
and  the  Cratchits  and  I  are,  as  I  have  said,  all 
in  one  boat ;  the  turkey  and  I  are,  to  say  the  most 
of  it,  ships  that  pass  in  the  night,  and  greet  each 
other  in  passing.  I  wish  him  well ;  biit  it  is  really 
practically  impossible  to  discover  whether  I  treat 
him  well.  I  can  avoid,  and  I  do  avoid  with  horror, 
all  special  and  artificial  tormenting  of  him,  stick- 
ing pins  in  him  for  fun  or  sticking  knives  in  him 
for  scientific  investigation.  But  whether  by  feed- 
ing him  slowly  and  killing  him  quickly  for  the 
needs  of  my  brethren,  I  have  improved  in  his  own 
solemn  eyes  his  own  strange  and  separate  destiny, 
whether  I  have  made  him  in  the  sight  of  God  a 
slave  or  a  martyr,  or  one  whom  the  gods  love  and 
who  die  young— that  is  far  more  removed  from 
my  possibilities  of  knowledge  than  the  most  ab- 
struse intricacies  of  mysticism  or  theology.  A 
turkey  is  more  occult  and  awful  than  all  the  angels 
and  archangels.  In  so  far  as  God  has  partly 
295 


All    Thinii^s   Considered 

revealed  to  us  an  angelic  world,  he  has  partly  told 
us  what  an  angel  means.  But  God  has  never 
told  us  what  a  turkey  means.  And  if  you  go  and 
stare  at  a  live  turkey  for  an  hour  or  two,  you  will 
find  by  the  end  of  it  that  the  enigma  has  rather 
increased  than  diminished. 


Prinlt'd  I'h  MoRKisos  &  c;ibb  Limited,  EJiitbinyh 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


tw 


fp-^t967  9,4 


RFCF'X/rfi 


r[:B    7 '67 -11  ^M 


LOAN  DEp- 


|£t.m--^et-t^0978 


REC.  l>«. 


Vi-B     5  1979 


-_  RECEIVFC 


—    DEC28'67  -11AM 


-       ^^g^Q  ...JUU211987 


^^^^ 


:,':m    ^^^ 


1,    JUN  1     1977 


\m,cuso]  m^i 


rnr 


gE&  0%      MAR  3  0  7  3 


^>\   1 


Ttr 


-EEB- 


e-^^i 


1979 


ff  •  ^"''^    JUN  i  9    lW!i 


jiikA 


5\9ft7 


LD  21A-60m-7.'66 
(G4427sl0)476B 


General  Library 

L'niversirj-  of  California 

Berkeley 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 

■lllllllllll 


BDDBDDmifl 


